Concrete Kenny
by scarylolita
Summary: When Kenny finds his friends suffering due to past mistakes and relationships gone wrong, he vows to make sure that they all have their happy ending, even if he can't have his. Slash, Crenny and Style.
1. KM: This is South Park

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

_**Kenny's POV**_

* * *

Destiny is a bitch. She's got your entire life predetermined. Sure, kid, it may feel like you're the one in control, but that's what she wants you to think. She's sly like that. She knows you. She knows you better than you know yourself and you are her favorite play things. She is the puppet master and you are the doll on strings. She waves you around on that little stage called life and she loves it. She loves you all too, her favorite toys. Unfortunately, she was never one to take good care of her things. You know war, famine, pestilence, and death? "_Look at all my little darlings," _Destiny will say, and with that, it is time for a new game. It may be a story of a brutal ending, or maybe a story of a beautiful beginning… Then again, what's stopping it from being both?

People have always called me out, saying I know things. I guess it's true. I know a lot, however there are some things that even I, Kenny McCormick, am unaware of.

What am I?

Why am I here?

What is my purpose?

These are questions I am constantly asking myself and their answers still remain unknown.

Maybe Destiny has a plan for me as well… or maybe she's too busy laughing in my face.

* * *

Yesterday was fairly ordinary.

I woke up late, I got dressed, and managed to slip out the door unnoticed by my parents.

No breakfast.

No shower either. We have no hot water left and I hate cold showers. They hurt.

I took the long way to Craig's. The safe way. And when I left, I told him I'd see him later on that night.

But on my way home I didn't take the safe way. I took the path, which is half as short. I took the path, where I had to walk across a set of train tracks. Usually I would avoid this path for obvious reasons, but I was lazy and decided it would be okay to take this shortcut just once.

A watch pot never boils. Isn't that the old saying? I assumed that by expecting something bad to happen, I might have been able to avoid it.

Apparently that saying isn't always true because as I was crossing the final set of tracks one of my pant legs got hooked on a loose railway spike.

"No, no, no, no, no!" I screamed as I _coincidentally_ heard the engine of a train coming my way, struggling to untie my shoes and take off my jeans so I could escape unscathed.

I don't know why I even tried. Of course, I should have known it wouldn't do me any good. In my case, the _watch pots_ always boil, no matter how unlikely. So rather than allow the train to take my foot off, I just jumped in front of it. Shit, it was painful… Well, that's an understatement, but it's better just to die than lose my foot.

It's funny. Sometimes you can grow so accustomed to something that your body has it memorized even better than your mind. Each time I die, it feels so disgustingly familiar and I'll realize that it's just another ordinary evening.

I don't die as much as I used to when I was a kid, but even once a week is too often and the feeling is still there - that familiarity.

When I woke up in my bed after an annoying trip down under, I went to the party I told Craig I'd see him at. I went to a party because it's summer, and summer means parties, which means drinking, which means sex and hangovers. All the fun stuff that Kenny McCormick is all about.

So I went to that party, and I drank quite a lot at that party.

Token, Nichole, Clyde, Bebe… Everyone from Craig's old gang was there.

Well. Except Tweek.

Bebe had noticed. I think everyone else had too, but they were too scared to say anything. Bebe is fearless.

"Where's Tweek?" she had asked, sounding genuinely curious and even a little worried.

"Bebe, Tweek is…" I trailed off when Craig gave me an angry look. "Never mind," I sighed. "Another time."

And she understood. She didn't pry further, but Craig still looked like he had a metal rod up his ass for the rest of the night.

I got ridiculously drunk in an attempt to escape his wrath and he dragged me back to his place before I could go do anything too stupid. I guess that's what friends are for.

He made me drink a couple glasses of water, and then we fell asleep. But it's morning now, and you can see the sun peeking through the window behind the curtains.

"Craig?" I ask into the dim room.

No reply.

"Craig, you fucking faggot, I know you're awake so stop pretending to be asleep," I growl.

"How'd you know?" he asks sounding tired, and annoyed.

"Your breathing pattern changed."

"Hm," he mumbles. "Weirdo. Only you notice shit like that."

"You know, I died on my way home from your house yesterday," I say mildly, rolling around in his bed.

"Good," he grunts, "and stop that, you're shaking the fucking bed and it's pissing me off."

I make a face at him. "You're an asshole."

"Whatever."

"So who were yah with last night before dragging me back here?" I ask.

"I don't know," he says. "Some girl."

"Did you fuck her?"

"Yeah," he says nonchalantly. He stands up and stretches before sitting back on the edge of his bed.

"Was she good?" I ask, crawling out from under the blankets and standing in front of him.

"I don't fucking know, Jesus Christ, you're annoying."

"Was she better than me?" I grin, sinking to my knees and unbuttoning his jeans. I guess he hadn't bothered changing out of his day clothes when we arrived back here last night.

Crag snorts. "You know," he starts, "this is the only thing you're good for, McCormick."

Ah, fuck. It hurts when he says shit like that, but I wouldn't let him know it. It isn't like he'd really care anyway. So I force a chuckle, I wrap my hands around his already hard dick, licking the shaft slowly and reveling in the annoyed sounds he makes.

"McCormick, don't fucking tease," he warns, roughly grabbing a handful of my hair.

I smile to myself, "Sorry, sorry." I jerk his dick a few times before taking the entire length into my mouth.

So, don't get me wrong, Craig isn't some evil guy, he's just incredibly emotionally stunted, a bit of a bastard, and well, a bunch of other things. I guess it's difficult to describe someone you know as well as I know Craig. Maybe it can't be done.

Oh well, in the end, Craig has my back. He's saved my sorry ass more times than I can count. I guess you could say this is how I reward him? Usually it happens in a similar fashion: I get drunk, I get stupid, and I get myself into trouble I can't handle. Craig shows up in the nick of time, looking like my fuckin' knight in shining armor or some shit. He takes me back to his place, where I pass out, and when I wake up he is his usual bitter self. "You're gonna get yourself in serious shit one of these days," he'll often say, trying not to sound too concerned. I usually tell him something along the lines of, "I die all the time, what would be worse?" We exchange a few more words, and then I give him a treat.

I don't know the exact reason it keeps happening, but it does.

When we were twelve we lost our virginity to the same girl. I guess it was somewhat of a threesome? Either way, Craig whined about how gay the whole experience was after it was all over. I guess he was still stuck in that phase where he was uncomfortable about the possibility of his sexuality being something other than straight. For me, it was different. I had realized that I'd rather it had just been me and Craig. I caught myself watching him rather than the girl, and I caught myself thinking about him the next time I jerked off. So two years later I made it happen…

I don't remember exactly how it went down the first time. We were fourteen and I guess we were both pretty wasted, not that that's anything new and shocking.

It happened the way I knew it would. A bit of alcohol, and soon we were rocking against each other in an embarrassingly desperate frenzy. I had half expected him to suddenly push me away and jump back, but I guess the friction between our clothed bodies was probably enough to make him forget it was me he was doing it with.

My fingers were shaking with anticipation as I fumbled with the button on his jeans. After I was finished with the button, I pulled the zipper down easily.

He reached forward, experimentally at first. He hadn't touched another dude before then, and he'd never admit it but he was probably nervous.

Next thing I knew I was jumping up and down on his lap, riding his dick like an energized porn star. I guess you could say I really wanted it to happen, but I wasn't a pretty face with a sweet pair of titties. I kind of lack both of those things, so at first I wasn't sure why Craig continued to fuck around with me. I suppose it was convenient. We had agreed a long time ago that it was going to be an emotionless no-strings-attached kind of thing. All I am is a hole, he's even admit it. Maybe it was his way of admitting he wasn't straight.

The words were: "Male, female, it doesn't matter as long as they've got a hole."

"Ouch," I said in a mock-hurt tone. "Is that all I am to you?"

"Yup," he replied nonchalantly.

Maybe that's why we've never kissed. Isn't that strange? We've been fucking around like this for years and we've never kissed. Craig Tucker doesn't kiss just anyone. I'm not special enough. Heh.

Then again, maybe it's because Craig Tucker is in love.

I tilt my head upward and see his lips part as his brow furrows. His eyes are shut and he's probably pretending someone else is on their knees in front of him.

Seconds later, he releases into my mouth without warning, causing me to jump away slightly.

I feel my eyebrows draw together as I harshly swallow and lick the corners of my mouth. "Fuck, a warning would be nice next time, asshole!" I growl once the mess is gone from my face.

He just grunts, zipping his jeans back up. "Who said there would be a next time?"

"Oh, please," I laugh, standing up, "Like you could stay away. It's been five years since we've started playing this game, so admit it,_Tucker_, I'm the best piece of ass you've ever had."

"Yeah, yeah, you're a real choice piece," he says dryly.

"Don't try to deny it."

"McCormick, why are you such a fuckin' slut?"

"Watch it, Tucker," I warn. I'm not about to get started on the conventions of that stupid word.

"No, seriously, I wanna know what the fuck kind of trauma you've endured to end up like this."

"I haven't endured any trauma, you dumbass," I mumble.

"Is it because of your dad?"

"No, retard. My dad hits me, he doesn't rape me," I grimace. "Man, you're so fucking dim."

"Well most guys don't voluntarily suck their friends' dicks."

"I don't," I say, "Just yours." I wink, and he rolls his eyes. That piece of information should be enough for him to put two and two together, but no. This is Craig Tucker, the most stubborn asshole I know.

"Yeah, right," he scoffs, "Who else have you given special treatment to? Kyle? Stan? Cartman?"

I scowl, but don't bother answering. Truthfully, I haven't ever gotten funky with any of my best buddies. It'd probably be weird as hell.

"You may as well walk around wearing a sign on your back that says 'I like taking big dicks up my ass.'"

"Ha," I laugh, "You're not that big."

"Bigger than you."

"Not by much."

He smirks briefly, "By much."

I roll my eyes. "Why are you being such an angsty bastard lately, anyway?" I ask.

"I'm always a bastard."

"Sure, that's true," I chuckle at the fact that his dignity allowed him to admit it, "but you're ten times worse lately. Why?"

He doesn't answer the question.

"Don't brood, it really doesn't suit you."

"Shut up," he mumbles.

"God damn, Craig, don't be so emo," I laugh, "this isn't 2007. Emo isn't cool."

"Fag."

"Fine," I relent, "I'm going home. See you later."

When I turn to leave I notice the empty guinea pig cage on the desk near the door.

_Ah… So another one bit the dust._

I don't say anything before exiting the Tucker residence. He'd only get even more pissy if I brought it up.

As soon as I step outside I feel a rush of pleasantly cool air.

Yeah, summer is here. You can feel it.

* * *

Kevin got away, if you can believe it. Kevin McCormick got away. Part of me still doesn't quite believe it. I had always thought it was impossible. The people who grow up in South Park always come up back in the end; however maybe this time it'll be different. Maybe they'll be able to stay far away. I really hope so.

I remember the day it happened, he looked at me and said, "Ken, I'm leaving."

I only nodded, before saying, "Take Karen with you."

And, thank fuck, he did.

I always told Karen, "Be better than me," but I think it was hard, living in a place like South Park. I was such a little shit. I guess I still kind of am. I wasn't a good role model and I didn't want her to end up like me.

We're all pretty fucked up around here, and sure, some have it worse, but every single kid in South Park is fucked up no matter how hard they try to pretend they're not. Even I'm guilty of trying to pretend I'm normal, but who the fucking hell am I kidding? I might be the least normal of us all, with my constant trips to hell.

South Park isn't a place for people weak in mind, and I may be the weakest one here.

Sometimes I think the town is simply cursed. It would best explain things. It'd explain why so many tourists end up high-tailing it out of here, screaming. It'd explain why all the celebrities want to sue the town. It'd explain why the cops don't know shit. It'd explain why Cartman can get away with murder. It'd explain why every supernatural entity tends to flock here and screw things up. It'd explain why_certain_ adults could get away with worshipping a _certain_ dark lord who, in turn, made their kid a fuckin' immortal! It'd explain why everyone else's parents seem to care too much about the stupidest things, while mine don't care enough. It'd explain why my parents can get away with selling drugs why my dad can keep beating the shit out of me. It'd explain why we're all so goddamn fucked up in the head. Yeah… It would explain a whole lot. But then again, maybe I'm just blaming the town just for the sake of it. Maybe it really is just us.

For a long time Wendy and Stan were happily dating, while Cartman continued to unremorsefully manipulate girls into having sex with him. I guess it's easier now that he's finally grown into his body. Kyle was happily studying law, not allowing himself to get aroused outside his mind. He always purposely portrayed himself as having somewhat of an asexual vibe. Tweek was doing better and Craig was becoming less of a stubborn asshole. Everything was in place, even if it was wrong. I thought we'd stop making stupid mistakes.

None of this is true anymore. I know that now. Maybe it never really was and maybe it never will be. However, in realizing all of this I feel pretty determined.

Things are rarely the way they seem. I know that the things the guys were doing and the things the guys were feeling were completely out of whack for the longest time, but I refrained from saying anything. They wouldn't have listened even if I did.

I didn't realize they'd find it in themselves to act on what they felt without me having to utter a single word of persuasion, but they did and now they're stuck. However, they won't be stuck for long. I'll help them get through whatever shit they've gotten themselves into even if I can't fix my own messes.

I'm tired of getting the short end of the stick, but it's okay. For now, it's okay.

I feel like my life's gonna end for good pretty soon. It's been a good run, but each year I day I'm getting closer. Each second I'm getting so much closer. I know I won't last much longer. It could be any day. However, before I'm gone, I want to make a difference in someone's life. I want to become the kind of person people will love and miss and be able to say good things about after I'm gone.

This will be the summer where I'll figure everything out. I'll fix things. I'll fix myself.

I swear I will, even if it kills me… which it very well might.


	2. KM: The bad things

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

_**Kenny's POV**_

* * *

Kyle and Stan are back in South.

Of course, the super best butt-friends had to attend the same university. It sucks that I don't get to see them during the year. I'm kind of pissed I didn't even get one email from them, but I won't bring it up. Kyle would just tell me that we don't need to talk every day to stay close, our friendship is stronger than that, we will be friends forever, blah blah blah gay.

I think that's why I spend all my time with Craig, among other reasons. He stayed in South Park when everyone else was eager as hell to get as far away as possible.

But like I said, they always come back. So I don't know why some of them bother leaving at all.

Craig works at an auto-shop and I still don't have a job. I'm not sure how Craig holds his down. To Craig, if something is optional, the answer is "no" and if it's not optional, he'll half ass it. That's kind of his motto. At least I have an excuse for why I fuck around. I can't hold a job down because I just end up getting fired for missing shifts. It's not my fault I keep dying. Fuck.

In a matter of minutes I'll be seeing Kyle and Stan for the first time since last summer and I know exactly what is going to happen once I get to Kyle's house. I'll ask him how school is going, how his marks were, things like that. I'll let him rant for a little while, because I know he's probably aching to tell me all about the university experience. Once he's finished, he'll ask how I'm doing. I'll tell him I'm doing fine, and he'll leave it at that, not noticing that maybe I'm not fine. I'm pissed. Tired. Angry.

People seem to think that Kenny McCormick isn't capable of feeling those things. Kenny McCormick is a fun and easy going guy. I guess that is true enough, but I can also be the opposite of those things. I kind of wish people would understand that, but then again maybe it's all my own fault for keeping quiet.

* * *

And sure enough, that is exactly how it went down. Kyle ranted about school, and when he asked me how I was, I told him, "I'm fine. Nothing new in South Park."

However, he seems a little bit off.

"Stan will be over in a bit and Cartman will be back in South Park tomorrow," he says after he's finished filling me in on his school life.

"Okay," I smile. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"Uh, no?" Kyle tilts his head.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes?" he frowns. "Why?"

"You just look like there's something else on your mind."

"There isn't…"

"If you say so," I shrug, still not quite convinced. "Hey, can I use your shower? There's no hot water at my place."

When we were young, I'd usually do my bathing at Stan or Kyle's house, sometimes even Eric's when the fucker would take pity on me. Now I just bug Craig when we run out of hot water.

Kyle nods, "I'll get you a towel."

"All right," I say, making my way into the bathroom. Once inside, I turn on the taps and strip down.

Kyle politely averts his eyes as he walks in, towel in hand.

"Kyle?"

"What?"

"Want to stay in here?"

"But you're naked," he mumbles.

"It's okay," I say, amused. "You don't want to be alone now, do you?"

"Stop reading my mind," he sighs, slowly lifts himself up and takes a seat on the counter, placing the towel on his lap.

I chuckle, stepping into the shower and watching him through the transparent shower curtain. He looks like he's contemplating something. I wonder what.

I turn away and reach for a bottle of raspberry scented shampoo, squirting a bit into my hand. I wonder if it's Kyle's or Ike's shampoo… I'd guess Sheila's, but Kyle's parents have their own bathroom. It's probably Kyle's.

"Kenny?" he finally says in a loud. "You know how Wendy and Cartman go to school in the same area?"

"Yeah…?" I raise an eyebrow, sticking my shampoo-covered head out from behind the curtain.

"Well…" he trails off.

"What is it?"

"Wendy's fucking Cartman," he mumbles miserably.

Wait…

"What?" I just about choke. "Seriously? Just like that?"

His cheeks turn pink and I see him frowning.

"Kyle," I say, before repeating my question. "Why would Wendy do that if she's dating Stan? And why does that even bother you? Clearly something happened."

And I think I have a feeling what it may have been.

He mumbles something indiscriminate, looking down at the tiled floor as if he's searching for life's fuckin' truth.

"Well?"

"Because," he sighs, "Wendy and Stan had a fight. They've been fighting like that for a while… I guess the long-distance part of their relationship was hard for them both to handle. So without warning she came one night to work things out with him in person… She ended up walking in on Stan and I… in bed… together… It was her payback to Stan."

I feel a laugh force its way out my throat before I can stop myself.

"Dude!" Kyle shrieks, giving me a sharp look. "It's not fucking funny! It was mortifying!"

Haha! Oh, God. Oh shit, this is perfect. I always knew Kyle was secretly gay for Stan. I knew that Stan probably felt something too, but was probably too scared to act on it. I guess I was wrong. I guess this is the only way it could've happened. Stan is a little too dumb to do things the right way.

"So you are screwing Stan –" I start while rinsing my hair.

"Was," Kyle corrects, "We… stopped doing that stuff. Stan wants to fix things with Wendy."

Ah. Of course Stan would end things like that. Poor Kyle.

"Why the hell?" I ask, "You are way better suited for Stan. Why the hell would he sleep with you if he knew he'd regret it later? It doesn't seem like something he would do."

Eric is probably revelling in the twisted betrayal. He loves this kind of sick shit.

Kyle nods miserably, and I give him my most understanding look.

"I don't want pity," he mumbles, rubbing his hand over his face.

"It's not pity, dude," I shrug. "I guess you could say it's empathy."

"Empathy?" he asks, looking up at me.

I see the blood rush to his face as I step out of the shower and onto the floor mat. He turns his head away and hands me the towel. I feel myself grin a bit as I wrap it around my waist. I bet Stan would be jealous if he was here to witness Kyle blushing at me.

"Weird as it may seem, I understand what you're going through. You know, we're kind of in the same boat, you and I."

"Yeah?" he asks, tilting his head.

"Yeah," I say. "But it's okay, dude. It'll be okay. Stan was kind of a dick for doing all that shit to you."

"I wanted it, though…"

"You wanted something different than what Stan gave you. What you wanted was his soul and mind and all that gay stuff, but what he gave you was his body. It was all he could give you. Wendy has, or had, the part of him that you want. She kept it locked away where only she can reach it." I shake my head and sigh, "Stan should have known better… To be honest, I don't think Stan knows what he wants, even now. You've given him something important to think about."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," I start as I dry off my limbs, "you might have a chance with him after all."

Kyle just shrugs, probably trying to play it off like he doesn't care but we both know that isn't the case.

"And even if you don't have him in the end, you know what they say," I continue, tossing the towel into the hamper before getting redressed. "It's better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all."

"Maybe," he mumbles.

"Come on," I say, throwing my arm around him. "Cheer up."

We walk back into Kyle's bedroom where we find Stan sitting on Kyle's bed with crossed arms.

"What have you guys been doing?" he raises an eyebrow at us, looking annoyed as we walk into the room together.

"Showering," I grin.

"Together?"

"Yeah –" I begin, but Kyle cuts me off.

"No."

Stan's annoyance lessens visibly and I can't help but smile to myself.

"No need to be jealous, Stan," I laugh, jumping onto the bed where Stan and Kyle are situated. "So," I begin, "Anything you want to talk about?"

* * *

It's evident that Kyle is getting pretty tired of Stan crying about how Eric stole Wendy away from him.

"Wendy's a smart person, dude," I say, in an attempt to help. "She's the type of person who wouldn't let herself be _stolen away_ unless she wanted to be. She's also the type of person who would rightfully scold you for saying that she's capable of being stolen away because women aren't property… And she'd be right. Wendy isn't stupid. She's smart, really smart. She knows exactly what she's doing."

"So, you're saying…" he pauses, "that I'm being an idiot."

I smile lightly, "Glad you caught on."

He sighs, letting out a defeated sounding chuckle. "I guess I was asking for it, though. I didn't really ever listen to her."

"Maybe," I say, joining him in soft laughter… _That among other things, Stan._

"She was always so bothered when I spent time with Kyle," he shrugs.

"Did you ever wonder why?"

He flushes. "I mean, I couldn't choose between my super best friend and my girlfriend. That's dumb."

"Did you ever think that maybe that wasn't what she was worried about when she was jealous?" I offer.

"What do you mean?"

I smile a bit. "I mean, look at the way you and Kyle are with each other. You still share a bed during sleepovers, and you basically spoon with each other in your sleep," I hold up a hand when Stan and Kyle look like they're about to protest, "Don't even bother denying it, guys, I've seen it firsthand. She probably felt threatened by Kyle… Besides, you did fuck him. Wendy isn't naïve. I'm sure she had that fear lingering in the back of her mind, and when you guys confirmed it something in her broke."

"So you told him," Stan mumbles, peering over at his best friend.

"Yeah," Kyle shrugs.

Stan seems to be considering what I said, while Kyle simply asks, "By the way, Kenny, how do you know I was on the bottom?"

"Oh, Kyle," I say, patting his head in mock sympathy. "I just know these things."

Apparently Kyle also has a pretty big dick and I personally can't see Stan taking that up the ass anytime soon. He has a pretty low pain tolerance and gets incredibly whiny when he's in pain.

Their cheeks turn a faint pink color and Stan mumbles something indiscriminate.

"What was that?" I ask.

"Nothing," he shakes his head. "Just… when I think about it, it makes sense."

"What does?"

"Cartman and Wendy."

"Yeah?"

He nods, "I mean, they kind of… mesh well. She's kind of scary sometimes. Remember in grade three, when we had that substitute Ms. Ellen? Wendy got jealous and she decided to… get rid of her…?"

"Yeah," I snicker. Wendy could be fuckin' crazy. She's kicked Eric's ass once or twice in the past. Knowing how fucked up he is, it probably made him like her even more.

After getting all the heavy talk out of the way, we enjoy the rest of the night with simpler talk and some good old video games.

* * *

The next day I visit Tweek at the hospital.

"Hey, you," I say, because he's never the first one to talk.

"Hi," he says, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

"Tired?"

"I guess."

"Are you sleeping well?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sleeping often?"

"Yeah…" he frowns. "It's almost all I ever do now."

"Y'know, I used to sleep a lot, too," I laugh bitterly. "I think I felt that I could sleep my problems away. I mean, I've never exactly died in my sleep and if I did I don't remember."

"Did it make things easier?" Tweek asks.

"For a while, but the problems were always there when I woke up," I say. "That's why you need to deal with things. You can't just pretend they aren't there in hopes they'll eventually go away. They won't. You have to talk to your doctors, and talk to your friends."

He looks down.

"Tweek," I say.

"Huh?" he jumps at the sound of his name.

"How's therapy going?"

"I'm not –nng– sure," he shrieks his admittance.

"Come on," I reach out and puts a hand on his shoulder. He shudders at the contact and I draw back. "You can talk to me."

"I know," he says. "You listen, and you don't tell people's secrets."

I nod.

"When I was sixteen I had a therapist who… He-He used to make me keep these lists about some of my secret things," he starts.

I nod again.

"I didn't like that… telling a stranger those things."

"What things?" I ask softly.

"What-I-did-during-the-week kind of lists," he continues. "What I had eaten, who I had argued with… Fights I've been in, who I hit, who hit me, what I had thrown up, how many cigarettes I smoked, who I had sex with, how many lies I had told and who to, whether I hurt myself… He didn't make me do it for long. I always worried so much about the lists, because Jesus Christ, having to remember all the shit I say and do is way too much pressure, man!"

"Yeah," I smile lightly. "That's a lot to remember."

"I didn't like him," Tweek shudders.

"How's your new therapist?"

"He's nicer… He doesn't make me keep those kinds of lists."

"That's good."

"Do you think Craig hates me?" he asks suddenly with a slight tremor.

I shake my head.

"Do you think he's angry?"

"No," I say. "He's upset, but not in the angry way."

"Then what way?"

"He didn't want to see you like that."

"But why?"

"He cares about you, and when he found out what you were doing he seen a part of himself in you."

"A part of himself?"

I nod, "The part he hates most."

Tweek frowns, "Is Craig sad too?"

I smile, though it's probably a pretty lame attempt. "Everyone is a little sad," I say. "Even the happiest people. Sometimes people don't even know why they're sad."

"Sometimes I don't know why I'm sad," he admits.

"That's okay. Sometimes there are reasons, and sometimes there are none."

My first visit with Tweek didn't go over well.

He didn't notice me when I entered the little square room. His eyes were open, but I doubted he was seeing anything at all. I thought for sure that his mind had been breaking into a new fit of paranoia. He was shaking, trying to scratch at the holes in his arms and making quiet murmuring sounds.

He was just lying there, strapped down and staring wide eyed at what looked like nothing in particular. I picked up one of the pillows on his bed and lightly hit him with it, but he didn't seem to notice. I gave him a couple light smacks on the face, trying to make him snap out of whatever trance he was in.

"Stop," he eventually mumbled.

"Sorry," I said. I reached for his arm and lifted up his sleeve.

"Tweek…" I mumbled, noticing the bandages. "Why did you hurt yourself again?"

"Relief?" he said, wording the answer like question. "Every time I bled, it was like… things were pouring out of me… not just blood. In the end, that's all I really wanted… I wanted the bad things gone."

I nodded, somewhat sympathetically, "I think that's what everyone wants. They want the bad things gone."

It's true, I think.

I'm no different.

"Hey, Tweek?" I say, snapping myself out of depressing nostalgia. "Do you want me to call Craig?"

He shakes his head frantically.

Craig's been here, but he never stays long, and he hasn't spoken to Tweek yet. Maybe it's still too soon. Things are still pretty tense between the two because of everything that had happened between them.


	3. KM: Shrug it off

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

_**Kenny's POV**_

* * *

When I arrive to Craig's house after visiting Tweek, I see him sitting on his front porch smoking a cigarette. How familiar.

"I visited Tweek earlier," I say, slumping on the steps next to him.

He nods, but doesn't say anything.

"He isn't really doing any better," I continue.

"Well, you sure don't sugar-coat anything," he mumbles, exhaling.

"There's no point in lying," I shrug, and he passes the cigarette over to me.

"You should visit him again," I say, inhaling. "I've told the others what was up and they all went to see him – Bebe, Clyde, Token… I think their visits cheer him up, but they aren't what he needs most. He needs you, his best bud."

Craig shakes his head.

"Why won't you talk to him when you visit?"

"I make things worse," he mumbles.

"How?"

He steals the cigarette back, finishing it off before finally answering me.

"Do you know what the last thing he said to me was?" he asks after exhaling the last bit of smoke.

"Yeah," I say. "He said he hated you."

"Exactly." He throws the cigarette on the ground and steps on it.

"Do you think he actually meant it? I don't think he actually meant it. He was just angry, and probably a little ashamed."

"I hurt him."

"Yeah, I know… And he hurt you, too. You guys are even."

"Whatever."

I roll my eyes, "Not _whatever_. Clearing this is bothering you if you are telling me, of all people, about it."

"It's not," he insists, standing up.

"All right, fine," I relent, following him inside.

Craig gives his parents the middle finger as we make our way upstairs. They both return the gesture from their place in the kitchen. Such a loving family… Well, still more loving than mine is.

When we get into his room, we fuck loudly. He's probably hoping his parents will hear. I think he wants to get a rise out of them, but they're the type of people who don't really care what or who Craig does. But still, I'll humor his intentions.

"Jesus Christ, you're fucking tight," he mumbles, resting my calves on his shoulders and holding me in place by the hips.

"Yeah..ahhh… well," I say shakily. "I j-just died the other day… s-so, you know, I have a new virgin body and all that sh-shit… Shit! F-FUCK! Tucker, s-slow down!"

"No."

I bite my lip and groan each time my skull smacks against the bed's headboard, reminding me of the bruise that _should_ be there, but isn't. At least there is one positive thing that comes from the constantly dying. I come back completely unblemished.

I don't let Craig see me naked if I'm all banged up. If my dad just had a go with me, then hell no. I'll keep my clothes on, thanks. Bruises aren't flattering, in my personal opinion. Some people might like 'em, but they aren't my thing. I mean… maybe I wouldn't mind if I was just clumsy, but my bruises are never from falling down the stairs or anything like that.

Craig never asks why I'm not "in the mood" during these times because I think he already has a pretty firm idea what I'm hiding under my clothes. So yeah, I won't have sex with Craig after my dad beats me up, mostly because of the bruises, but also because I feel pretty damn awful altogether after that kind of shit happens. Can anyone blame me? Craig never pushes me if I'm not into it, which is cool of him, considering how rough he can be. You know, I usually pride myself in knowing what people are thinking, but I rarely know what Craig Tucker is thinking. No one does, and I think he likes it that way, but still... It's weird that I can't look at him and almost read his thoughts like I can with so many other people.

Craig grunts his release shortly after I do and pulls out, collapsing on top of me between my spread knees.

"I thought I told you to wear a condom," I sigh, wrapping my arms around him possessively. "Now you'll have to change the sheets."

"Whatever," he says, panting into the crook of my neck.

"Wear one next time," I mumble, though he probably still won't.

I guess if I'm going to be honest with myself, I'll admit it. Yes, I love Craig, but I love him in a different way than I love Kyle, Stan, and even Eric. Maybe that's why I've been finding myself in his bed for the past five years. He doesn't love me, that much is obvious, but if I can have this little piece of him, then I'll take it without complaining. It's selfish of me to keep him on a thread and refuse to move on, but part of me wants to make this last as long as possible, even if it'll make the end more painful. I guess I'm repeating what's happening with Stan, Kyle, and Wendy; however, I think in this case it's going to end a little differently.

"Craig?"

"Hm?"

"…Nevermind," I mumble.

He doesn't pry. He never does. It's because he doesn't really care. He doesn't care what makes me tick, what makes me happy, what makes me cry or whether I cry at all.

"When we do this, do you pretend I'm someone else?" I ask.

He never looks at me, so maybe he does. Maybe pretending is the reason he keeps coming back… because he can't have what he truly wants.

"What the hell do you care?"

"I don't," I lie, "I'm just curious. Humor me."

"Fuck off."

"You're an ass-licker."

"I'm not an ass-licker," he says. "You're the ass-licker."

I don't even bother responding to that. We just lay here in silence for a long time until Craig decides to speak.

"I like Tweek."

"What?" I ask, biting my lip. Of course, I knew that already. Tweek is one of the few people I do know Craig thinks about.

I knew it, but I pretended not to. Craig never said anything about it, so until he did I could at least pretend otherwise. He just broke that illusion. It really sucks to hear him finally say it out loud.

By "like" he really means "love", not that his stubborn personality would allow him to actually say that part out loud.

"Tch," Craig sounds somewhat annoyed at having been asked to repeat himself. "You heard what I said," he mumbles.

I force a laugh, but it probably sounds more like a sob. "So Craig Tucker has feelings? I was beginning to think you had a heart made of stone."

"Shut up, man," he says, rolling off of me so we're side by side.

I feel myself tearing up as the reality of it all sets in.

Now I can't deny it anymore.

Fuck, this really sucks…

I get up and hurry to put my clothes back on, ignoring the mess between my legs and trying to hide the fact that I started crying.

Me, crying…

Jesus Christ this is pathetic to an embarrassing extent.

"What're you doing?" Craig asks, sitting up.

I don't answer. I can't answer.

I rush out of his room and I hear him let out an irritated sound before he gets up and follows.

Still stark nude and covered in spooge, he yanks my arm, dragging me back into his dim lit room.

"What the hell, man?" he growls, forcing me to look at him. As soon as he sees my face, his expression changes, "Ah… you're crying."

"I'm not," I say stupidly, looking away.

"McCormick," Craig growls, sighing with frustration when I don't answer. "Kenny?" He wraps a hand around my arm and drags me down onto the bed with him. He doesn't say anything, but I can tell, in his own Craig kind of way, that he is trying to make me feel better.

"Why are you crying?" he asks, sounding exasperated.

"I'm not," I say again.

I can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"I can _see_ and _hear_ you crying, dumbass retard," he drones, but pulls me closer nonetheless.

I suddenly start to cry hard. I can't help it. I'm always embarrassed by my own tears. I turn away from him and make breathy, gasping sounds in a failed attempt to quiet myself. Craig is probably at a loss, but he whispers comfort-words to me nonetheless. I bring my knees to my chest and cup my shaky palms over my face. Craig touches my hair and doesn't force me to talk like everyone else would. He just lets me stay quiet.

Let's get one thing straight. I really hate crying. I especially hate crying around other people, and it usually takes an awful lot to make me cry. Sometimes I'll cry during an especially painful death, but that's all fine because no one ever remembers it.

However… I've never cried about something like this before. This is new. I guess everything I've kept bottled up is coming out. I guess it was inevitable.

"So… Why were you crying?" Craig asks awkwardly, long after I've gone quiet. By now, he's spooning me and it's something he's never done before. I'm pretty embarrassed if he was freaked out enough that he ended up spooning me. Craig Tucker does not spoon. If I wasn't so humiliated, I'd probably actually enjoy it.

"No reason specifically," I pull out of his hold, sitting up and looking at him.

He raises an eyebrow, but I just smile, "I'm fine now, really."

"You hardly look fine," he says tersely. "You look like shit, but whatever, I won't pry."

Craig is being Craig again. I guess that's a good thing.

"You should wash yourself," I snicker. "You have dried up jizz on you and that's pretty gross."

"It's your jizz, moron."

"Still gross. It's all crusty."

He makes a face.

I chuckle, "Nice look."

He shrugs, asking, "Wanna take a bath with me?"

"I showered at Kyle's yesterday."

"We just had sex," he states dryly. "I'm sure you could use a bath… Besides, most people shower every day."

"Yeah, well, I can't really afford to shower every day."

He looks annoyed.

"Fine, fine," I relent.

"I'll go fill it up," he says, leaving the room.

I know how weird this looks, but it's not really that weird. Then again, it's like Craig said… We did sleep together.

Craig has a pretty big bathtub and we first decided to put it to use when we were overheated on ecstasy pills a few years ago. I heard it was good to sit in a cool bath when you got overheated, so we both stripped down and got in the tub. In a way, it helped.

Soon enough it just became something we did. He fills the bath up with warm water and it always goes like this: we sit across from each other and his mind wanders, but he still pretends to listen as I speak about pointless things.

When I finally drag myself to the bathroom, Craig's already sitting in the tub.

I discard my clothes and sink into the water across from Craig. His legs are spread wide apart in this welcoming sort of way, with his knees resting on each side of the tub.

It's bright in here and I can see the scars on his thighs. There they are: little lines of raised, white and pink skin. Some are straight and some are more crooked and desperate looking. This isn't the first time I've seen Craig's scars. Far from it. You'd think I should be used to seeing them by now, but I'm not. I still feel a little bit sad when I see them.

But he stopped that a long time ago and now that's all they are. Scars.

It started when we were fifteen. I asked him about it many times, but I never told him he should stop. I had no right to tell him what he could and couldn't do to his body, even though I didn't understand it. It must take a lot of self-hatred to harm your own body. If I had the choice… If things were a little different, I would never let any harm come to my body.

I asked him many times why he insisted on cutting up the thing that gives him life. For a long time, he didn't answer. Maybe there is no simple answer to questions like that. I have a feeling that if I asked Tweek the question when he first went to the hospital he would have told me something like, "Because of that reason exactly: it's the thing that gives me life."

It took a long time, but he finally told me the story behind the marks.

"I wanted attention," he admitted bitterly. I knew he was talking about his parents, but I also knew there was more to it than just that. There always is, but I was content with knowing at least part of the secret.

"Did you get any?" I had asked.

"No."

The whole situation is pretty damn miserable. Maybe upon realizing that his parents weren't going to give him what he wanted he just gave up altogether… The thought of the complete and utter defeat he must have felt is even sadder than the thought of him alone with a blade.

I hear Craig let out a loud sigh, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Stop," he commands, looking me directly in the eye.

"Stop what?" I ask, not breaking contact.

"You're thinking about it again," he says. "You always do… It's fucking annoying."

"What am I thinking about?"

"You deny it, but I know you were disgusted."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were. You were disgusted that I was so easily capable of doing something like that."

"Craig, I –"

"You were," he snaps. "Don't bother trying to deny it. I saw the look on your face when you first seen them, fresh and red. I see the look you're wearing now, even after they're fading. I don't blame you though, I'm pretty fucking disgusted, too."

"I'm not disgusted," I insist, and it's the truth, but Craig only hears what he wants to hear.

He shrugs. "I didn't seem like the type, did I?"

"Craig, there isn't really a type when it comes to people who hate and hurt themselves."

"So it's self-hatred, is it?" he asks, probably rhetorically.

"To purposefully hurt yourself, you would have to at least hate yourself a little bit," I say.

"I don't hate myself."

"Okay," I smile.

"I don't," he repeats, sounding annoyed.

"Okay," I say again.

"Stop looking like that then."

"Like what?"

"You're smiling."

"Aren't I allowed to smile?"

"Not like that."

"Like what?" I laugh.

"Like you're a fucking God," he says distastefully. "Like you know every little damn thing about everyone. Stop kidding yourself, you're no God."

"I never said I was."

"Then stop acting like it."

"Fine, fine," I relent, not in the mood to pick a fight with the ass-master, "But you know what?"

"No, and I don't care."

"Well I'm gonna tell you anyway."

"Great," he says sarcastically.

"It's okay if you don't love yourself, because I love you enough for the both of us!" I say making kissy faces at him.

He grimaces, "Don't be creepy."

I chuckle a bit before sobering, "But you really should learn to love yourself."

"I don't hate myself."

"I know, I know," I say holding up my hands. "But just because you don't hate yourself it doesn't mean you love yourself."

"So?"

"Everyone should love themselves… Otherwise they can't expect to be loved by someone else."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I don't know, to be honest," I laugh.

"Well, do you love yourself?"

"Not especially," I admit, "I think it's hard to love yourself, and when you don't love yourself it's hard to accept love from someone else because maybe you think you don't deserve it."

And maybe that's how it would go if Craig actually did love me instead of Tweek. Maybe I'd be fucked no matter what because this is just the kind of person I am. So maybe it's better than I'm not the one he wants.

"Yeah."

"I don't really love myself, but at the same time I've never truly hurt myself with the intent of hurting myself. I've hurt myself to save myself from experiencing worse physical pain, I've sacrificed myself for others, but I'm not seeking it out. I don't hurt myself on purpose with those intentions."

"Liar."

I raise an eyebrow.

"You've hurt yourself," he says, "Just not physically." He taps his head, "You're constantly hurting yourself up here."

"Wow, you're so deep and intellectual, Craig," I say cynically. "Should I call you Dr. Tucker?"

He gives me a dry look before standing up and getting out of the tub.

* * *

I guess he's right.

It hurts. It hurts worse than dying. It hurts worse, knowing the person you love won't love you back and even if he did…

Fuck, I don't even know anymore.

So here I am, back home, lying face-down on my mattress and listening to my sad-song playlist.

But you know that old saying: time heals all wounds, even the ones you can't see. So I'll shrug off the sad feelings for now.


	4. KB: This is how we share a silence

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Everyone, thanks for the nice reviews, they keep me going (:**

_**Kyle's POV**_

* * *

If someone asked me why it is I love Stan Marsh, I'm not sure what I would say. I suppose I could say there are too many reasons and each day I find myself coming up with new ones.

But time is going by and Stan will begin to drift back to Wendy soon enough. I know Stan isn't mine and I know I'll lose him.

Everything comes and everything goes, it's the same for people.

When I told Kenny, he just listened. He listened, and he knew. He always does.

"It's okay, dude. It'll be okay. Stan was a dick for doing all that shit to you."

I couldn't help but defend Stan, "I wanted it, though."

"You wanted something different than what Stan gave you. What you wanted was his soul and all that gay stuff, what he gave you was his body. It was all he could give you. Wendy had the part of him that you want. She kept it locked away where only she can reach it." Kenny shook his head and sighed, "Stan should have known better… To be honest, I don't think Stan knows what he wants, even now."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," he started, "You might have a chance with him."

I just shrugged, mumbling something indiscriminate.

"And even if you don't have him in the end, you know what they say," he continued, "It's better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all."

Kenny knows. Kenny always knows.

I suppose it's true. We aren't children anymore. Today isn't yesterday. We should stop making these stupid little mistakes.

But Kenny had said something that surprised me. He said he understood how I felt.

Speaking of Kenny, he still disappears every so often. By disappear, I of course mean that he dies. I guess "disappearing" is just a nicer way of saying it.

However, there are times, like now, when I'm able to find Kenny. He's sitting on a boulder near Stark's Pond, throwing rocks into the water.

"Hey, Kyle," he says, not turning around, "You found me."

The walk back to my house is quiet, but not in an uncomfortable or awkward way.

"So what happened?" I ask.

"My dad's being a piece of shit," he shrugs, as if to say it's nothing new.

"Did he hurt you?"

He kicks a pebble before answering, "Yeah."

"Come on," I wrap my fingers around his wrist, "I'll patch you up."

"I should just kill myself and save you the trouble," he mumbles, "I'd come back a while later good as new."

"Kenneth," I say in a mock scold. "Come, let's go back to my place and I'll fix you."

"Fix me, huh?"

"Yeah."

* * *

"How'd you know I was there?" I ask once we're back at my place and situated in the bathroom.

"I heard your footsteps," he says as I fetch the first aid kit underneath the sink.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"I just knew."

"You always know everything."

He grins, "Not quite everything."

"Well then, tell me something you don't know," I challenge.

He pauses for a moment. "I don't know when I'm going to die. I mean, I know when I will die. It'll probably be tomorrow… But I don't know when I'm really going to die," he pauses, "Maybe I'm not wording it right… How about this: I don't know when I'm going to stay dead."

"Do you want to?"

"I want to," he confirms. "I want to know when my last and final trip to hell will be so I can savor my last moments on Earth. Each time I'm gone, there's part of me that worries I won't be able to come back and my mum will fuck herself up while I'm gone and all I can do is think of the things I regret. I always find myself thinking that I may as well walk in the middle of traffic each time I leave the house. It wouldn't make a difference, because no matter how unlikely the situation is, death finds me… But no matter how often I think that, I'd never actually do it."

"Oh."

"I guess I should start living like every death will be my last, huh?"

I feel myself frown, "Dude, don't say shit like that."

In high school secrets were what made you cool… having a lot of secrets, or maybe… acting like you have a lot of secrets. I guess that is why people liked Kenny so much, but unlike all the kids who would pretend, Kenny really did have secrets and know that I know about it, it isn't as cool as we all thought it was when we were young. I'm sure it was probably a burden on him, and for the longest time, I had no idea.

Now, I would be lying if I said I remember his deaths. I don't… but when Kenny finally told me the secret he had been harboring for so long I couldn't help but believe him. I knew he was telling the truth from the way his voice sounded, the expression he had on his face… He just looked sad and desperate. He needed me to believe the things that were coming out of his mouth, and I did.

Stabbed, ripped apart, crushed, eaten alive, amputated, decapitated, et cetera. It all sounds so horrible. I can't even begin to imagine it… So I told him I believed him, because I do.

He smiled when I told him that. He smiled and said, "I love you, man."

I was the first person he told. I still feel happy that he trusted me enough to finally share his secret. Somehow, Cartman had already known. Surprisingly, he vouched for Kenny every time someone doubted him. Though I'm not sure how much trust people put in Cartman's words.

"Sorry, Kyle."

I just shake my head, "You have nothing to apologize for. I'm the one who should be sorry."

I suppose I can't blame him for the things he feels. He never asked for any of it.

"Why?"

"I never remember the days you die."

"You do remember," he says, "At least until I come back. It's okay, though, no one remembers it once I'm back."

"I wish we could be the exception," I say, referring to Stan, Cartman and myself.

"That'd be cool," he smiles a bit before changing the subject, "So how's Stan? Is he still whining about Wendy even though I told him not to?"

"Yeah…" I sigh.

* * *

So it happened like this.

Stan put his hand on my thigh as his lips met mine. He called me over to his bed and said he wanted to "try something".

"What –" I had started to say, but was quieted, for you cannot kiss and speak at the same time.

It was messy and new and I didn't know what to do when his tongue crept into my mouth, but I went with it. It's all I really could do. I'd never kissed quite like that before. Bebe and Rebecca happened so long ago, and playing ookie mouth with Kenny didn't count.

There was desperation in his movements and I found it hard to believe that he'd done this so many times before. It was like he needed it, and maybe, just maybe he did? Or has there been that much desperation in each of his fucks? Was he like that with Wendy?

Maybe I'm not so special.

No, I know I'm nothing special. I was letting him "try something".

That's what friends are for, right?

He started to remove his clothing. Every inch of him was pleasant, just as I imagined it would be. He unbuttoned my shirt and felt the skin with fingers and tongue. I felt like a mess and he just felt me. The most intimate parts of me, parts I never thought Stan Marsh would be touching.

Our warm bodies pressed together, my pale skin contrasting against his slightly darker flesh.

There were roaming hands, fingers, and then –

"It'll feel good," he whispered. I felt the heat of his breath against my ear as he pushed his way inside of me, building up a steady rhythm. His hips moved slowly at first, but the movements gradually grew faster, harder. I kept my body rigid, trying to ignore the pain. My eyes were squeezed shut and my features were probably contorted, but Stan didn't stop. He didn't look. He didn't notice.

He had a firm grasp on my hips, while my legs were tossed carelessly over his shoulders. It hurt.

I couldn't tell him, "Wait," or, "Stop," because I couldn't find my voice. Even if I had been able to, would I have said it? I don't think I would have. I had wanted it for so damn long.

I opened my eyes and looked up at him. He wasn't looking at me. His eyes were glued at the wall behind me, half lidded. His mouth was slightly parted, small pants escaping. I didn't look away, I just kept staring.

I felt myself tear up. I thought that I would feel something from him, probably not love, but something. Maybe some sort of… deep caring? But no. Nothing.

It hurt. That's all I can say. It hurt, inside and out, and when it was over I just laid there for the longest time, kind of letting the entire experience sink in.

I felt Stan stop. I felt his whole body shudder. He made sounds I never thought I'd get to hear escape his lips and then basked in an afterglow. He wore an expression that shone pure bliss. I followed short moments after he wrapped his hand around me. I sprayed cum all over our stomachs and it dripped, making a mess of the sheets beneath my body.

I can't deny that a part of me felt satisfied. I felt satisfied that it was my own body that made him feel this way, but another part of me felt used. I recognize that that's all it was, and I knew it from the start. There is a clear difference between being wanted and being used

None of it was right. None of it was the way I had pictured it would be, not that I ever expected this day would come.

Once his breathing steadied and I was sure he was sleeping, I got out of bed. There was a lamp on, lighting up the room with a dim shine. I glanced down at the sticky mess on my skin and the sheets, feeling a sharp pain in my spine.

"Fucking hell," I hissed as I limped to the little bathroom in our dorm room.

I looked at myself in the mirror, my pale skin even paler than usual. I leaned in closer, staring into my own eyes. I didn't feel very good. Everything felt wrong. I felt hollow, yet heavy.

In my earlier years I had gotten used to hearing all those stupid romances about "careful touching". I knew it would probably hurt, but I hoped it would be a good kind of hurt.

It wasn't like that at all, instead there was just pain. Maybe it's because Stan didn't care. Ironically, he was always the one to lecture me about sex. He always said things like, "_Make sure your first time is with someone you love and who loves you back, otherwise it'll probably suck_."

So that's how it went the first time. I thought that would be the end of it, but it just kept happening and each time I fooled myself into thinking that maybe if I kept sleeping with him he'd eventually start to feel something.

After I showered I got dressed in my pajamas. I curled up on my bed and fell asleep.

The morning after wasn't pretty either. There was none of that romantic waking-up-in-each-others-arms bullshit like in the movies. There was just a sadness lingering in the air. It was uncomfortable.

Goddamn those fucking romance films, they're so deceiving.

"Good morning," I said, sounding like we just met. The tone of my voice is unpleasant even to my own ears.

"Hey," he said softly, "What are you doing?"

"I can't really move well," I said monotonously, shifting awkwardly into a sitting position.

"Kyle…" His eyebrows knitted together. "Were you a…" he trailed off.

I looked away, avoiding eye contact.

"You were," he frowned, "I was your first…" There was a look in his eyes that I couldn't quite place. He dragged a palm down his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah," I said quietly, though he should have known it. Maybe he did.

"Why?" he asked, almost desperately. "It shouldn't have…"

"It shouldn't have what?" I asked, finally getting up and standing up.

"It shouldn't have been me!"

I shrugged. "Sorry about the sheets on your bed," I gave a dry, humorless laugh, sounding like I was ashamed or slightly embarrassed. I think I was.

His gaze softened and his eyes grew sympathetic, but he didn't say he was sorry.

Like a lost child, I could not speak. I only shook my head and wrapped my arms protectively around my own abdomen.

I tried to smile, but it probably came off as a pretty lame attempt.

"Hey, what is it?" he asked softly.

I took a step closer to him, pressing my face against his naked chest and my hands on his ribs. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around me, and it made me feel little. It was like, for the first time, I was noticing how significantly small I really am. Never before had I felt so small.

I was crying, and he probably knew it, but he didn't say anything. He just let me.

When I finally pulled away, I gave him another unsure smile and left the dorm room, leaving him to change his sheets. I didn't want to have to watch him do that.

It felt like a one night stand. I guess, at first, that's all it really was, but we had slept together again the next night. It happened again and again.

"Does it help?" I had asked him, many days later.

"W-what?" he stuttered, caught off guard. We had been sitting in the library with our heads in books, trying to cram as much as we could before midterm exams started.

"Does it help you forget about Wendy?"

He frowned and looked away. "I'm sorry, Kyle." There was genuine remorse in his tone.

"I know you are, Stan," I said, "You always are."

"You deserve better than this," he whispered.

I didn't say anything else for the time being. I knew that admitting that probably wouldn't put a stop to it. I just began to wonder if there really was a difference between being wanted and being used.

When it first happened I thought I'd be okay with it. I remember thinking, _'if this is all I can have from him, I'll take it.'_

But it was hurting more than just my body.

It hurt the worst when he said Wendy's name while he was with me.

I liked to think of myself as a pretty strong-minded person. I can handle a lot of pain, but when he'd say Wendy's name, it hurt. It hurt worse than any physical pain I could have imagined.

Yet still I told him it was fine.

I used to think I was a strong-willed person, but I'm really not. I wished I could have told Stan that I was not a toy and it was not a game. I wish I could tell him that, for me, it was real, but I couldn't even really admit it to myself at first.

I would have rather had that than nothing at all, and realizing it made me feel sick to my stomach.

"Why me, though?" I asked, long moments later.

"Because you're soft, like a girl is."

"And?"

"You felt like _her_."

"And?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't object."

There it is. There is the truth.

It hurts.

He hurt me again.

* * *

I've always been there for him, whether I've been his feel-good fuck, whether I've been stopping him from punching holes in his bedroom walls, or whether I've been like this: wiping away his drunk tears at 3 in the morning.

My head would hurt each time and I just wished he would stop crying.

I used to have fantasies.

In these fantasies, I'd say, "I want to take care of you," then he'd tell me he didn't need to be taken care of because he's not some fragile little kid.

He'd say that, sure, but we would both know he didn't mean it. Deep down, he'd want me to stay with him, to take care of him, because sometimes it's nice to be taken care of.

After my in-depth fantasy, I'd just sit and think, "How pathetic."

When given the chance, I knew he would go back to Wendy with arms wide open. He'd forgive her, maybe she'd forgive him, and they'd make up. He'd love her. Stan has always been all about Wendy. Why would now be any different?

I knew I would only have him briefly. Wendy has the part of Stan that I can never touch.

So I had told him on a Saturday morning a few weeks back. The early campus streets were bare and Stan wasn't around at breakfast. I assumed he was probably still hiding away in our room in an attempt to chase away Friday night's familiar hangover.

I walked back upstairs after eating and those suspicions were confirmed upon my arrival. I crept into his bed and pressed my forehead into his back. I couldn't contain myself. I was hurting, and I was realizing that "heart break" wasn't just a figurative term. My chest was aching.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I know," he croaked, rolling over to face me.

"I love you," I repeated, starting to sob. I meant those words every fiber of my being.

"I know," he said again, pulling me into his chest.

* * *

I spend too much time looking back and contemplating things that shouldn't matter. I don't spend nearly enough time looking forward. But I don't think I'm the only one. None of us really spend that much time looking forward.

Often, I find myself thinking, "Well what exactly do I have to look forward to in the future?"

But then I realize that there is so, so, so much and Stan is only one small part of everything my life is. A small, but important part.

I think that no matter who he ends up with, I'll stay by his side. It might hurt, but I'll still stay.


	5. KM: Something to think about

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**_Kenny's POV._**

* * *

I'm visiting Tweek again.

I managed to convince Craig to tag along with me, but he won't even enter the room. He is just standing in the doorway, staring blankly at the shaky blond.

"See, Craig came again," I say to Tweek.

He doesn't answer me, he just frowns.

"He's just being stubborn, don't mind him," I offer, "You know how he is."

Still nothing. His gaze continues to travel toward Craig and then back at me.

"Talk with me for a bit," I say gently, "You look like you have something you want to get off your chest. I'll listen."

He trembles, and I can see the anxiety building up.

"I d-don't know what to do," he whispers, looking straight at me as if I should have the answer. Unfortunately, I don't, so I just wrap an arm around him and let him lean into my shoulder. I give Craig the stink eye from my position on the bed, but his expression still doesn't change.

I just sit here, rubbing Tweek's back as he shakes and shudders, making miserable sounds. I see Craig hovering in the doorway, but he doesn't move until the shaky blond grows quiet.

"He needs this," I say softly.

"He needs what?" Craig asks, taking one small step forward but no more than that.

"Human contact, I suppose." I look up at him, and force a smile, "I like to think it helps him."

Craig frowns.

"But you know what?" I ask, "He doesn't need this from me. He needs it from you."

"I hurt him."

"Yeah," I say, "And that's why it has to be you. He needs to know that you aren't angry at him. He needs to know that he shouldn't be ashamed and… well, that you care."

"Shut up, McCormick," Craig mumbles.

"Sure," I laugh. "You should fix things. I won't always be here to help. To be honest, I could be dead tomorrow."

"You probably will be."

"Not like that," I say, "I mean I could be gone forever."

"How?"

I shrug, "It's complicated."

"Well make it uncomplicated."

I don't say anything. I just smile, because it's all I really can do.

Craig leaves minutes later. I'll visit him tonight. I'll tell him what's up and some of what's been on my mind lately.

Minutes later, Tweek lifts his head and apologizes, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," I assure him.

"Kenny, what did you mean you could be gone forever?" he asks.

I wave my hands dismissively. "Nothing, don't worry about that. I'm just fuckin' with Craig so he'll stop being an asshole," I lie. I don't really like to lie, but Tweek doesn't need anything else to worry about. He should just concentrate on feeling better.

"Oh," he lets out a deep breath and miserably says, "I'm tired."

I smile, probably looking just as sad. "Crying makes people tired," I say simply.

He shakes his head against my shoulder, "It's not just that."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm just… tired of everything."

"Tweek…."

"I'm struggling, Kenny."

"I know," I say softly.

At least he's finally admitting it.

* * *

As I leave the building, a rush of warm air comes over me. Summer is nice, but part of me misses the sound of the snow packing under my boots.

Craig is sitting in his car waiting. He has his arms crossed and a scowl placed firmly on his face.

"Hey, ass-face, you waited for me," I say once I step into the car, settling in the passenger seat.

"Dick."

I just laugh.

"How's… things?" he asks carefully, and I know he's referring to Tweek.

"As good as they can be," I pause, "Maybe getting better."

He nods, uncrossing his arms and starting the car. "Do you mind if we stop at the pet store?" he asks, staring ahead.

"No."

He looks over at me briefly before turning his gaze back to the road. "No, as in you do mind, or you don't?"

"I don't mind," I say, "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," he mumbles.

"Sorry," I grin.

He rolls his eyes.

I look out the window. It is beginning to dim outside. The streets, the traffic, the yellow taxis, the blaring horns, the lights and all the strange faces start to disappear. The moon casts foggy shadows on hay bales strewn across the miles and miles of farm land. Cows are lying restless on the fenced in green fields.

I guess South Park can be nice sometimes, when weird shit isn't happening… Or maybe it's the moon, with its romantic connotations, making everything seem a little prettier.

Soon we pull in front of the pet store and Craig parks the car.

"What are you buying?" I ask, even though I already know.

"Stripe died," he mumbles as we walk through the doors. "Don't pretend you didn't already know that."

"Fine, fine," I say, following him into the shop. I trail behind him silently as he purchases a new guinea pig, which he will also name Stripe. That's how it's been going since we were children. He'll mourn for a few days and then make his way to the pet store.

I watch Craig look at the guinea pigs, stopping when he finds the one that looks closest to Stripe.

He buys the little animal and makes me hold the box on my lap during the ride back to his place.

"So, what are you going to name it?" I snicker, sticking my hand in the box and playing with the rodent.

"You're hilarious," he says dryly, "Oh, wait, no you're not. You're a faggot."

"Stop being a bastard."

"Why?"

"Because someday I'll die for good and then you'll feel guilty. You'll wish you could see me again so you could say sorry and kiss my ass but it'll be too late because my ass will be rotting away in a grave."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

I scoff, "Really, Craig, I'm obviously not going to live forever. No one does."

"But you're immortal."

"I can't even call it that anymore," I mumble. "My life is connected to my mum's, remember? When she dies, I'll probably follow a few days later. Sucks to be me."

Mom told me that crucial piece of information when I turned twelve. God, I was so fucking angry at her for putting me through this shit.

I hope the fucking free beer was worth it.

Control is something I strive for, and it's something I don't have. I've lost all control I've had over my life a long time ago. Maybe I've never had any to begin with.

"What?" Craig asks.

"That's the curse," I say, "or have you forgotten?"

Craig's eyebrows draw together. "But your mom… she's fine, right?"

"As fine as a meth addict can be."

To be honest, I'm lying. I'm gonna die young.

My mum is in pretty rough shape. So is my dad, but he isn't the one who keeps ODing. It's happened a few times already, but I keep that information to myself. I guess this is why I've been trying to get my act together and fix things lately. Someday soon it might be too late and I'll be in hell full of regret. I'd hate that.

I've tried to tell my mom that she should take better care of herself because her life isn't just her own, it's mine as well, but she never really listens. I gave up on asking her to sober up a long time ago.

"Well, shit," Craig says bluntly.

When we arrive back to his house, Ruby is playing in the front yard with a few of her friends. When Craig steps out of the car, she turns and gives him the middle finger.

He carelessly returns the gesture, and the two of us walk inside. I think Ruby's friends like Craig, which is pretty adorable. I don't blame them, Craig is pretty damn fine, but Ruby is always there to remind them that he likes to play "butt pirates" with me, "that blond gay". Not guy, gay.

I go straight to Craig's room, while he grabs me something to eat. I can hear him arguing with his parents. I can't make out what their saying. I can just hear Craig raising his deep and nasally voice. I try to ignore it as I put Stripe in his cage.

"Here," Craig says, tossing me an apple after entering the room.

I nod my thanks, taking a bite out of it. "So, why were you fighting with your parents?"

"They're pissed I took the car without asking," he shrugs, "Apparently I'm also irresponsible."

"Can't argue with that," I shrug nonchalantly.

"Shut up before I stick that up your ass," he growls, nodding toward the apple.

"Hm," I say, looking at the round fruit in my hand, "It's pretty wide, I don't think it would fit… Want me to try?"

"You have absolutely no shame."

"I know, I know," I grin, "You love it."

He grimaces, "Can you stop being a whore for, like, five seconds?"

"Language, language," I mock scold. "But to be honest, I don't think you're irresponsible. I think you are lazy and unmotivated, but if something has to get done, you get it done… Even if you make sure to exert minimal effort."

He rolls his eyes.

"You should get your own car," I suggest, "You do work at an auto shop."

"Cars are expensive."

"Then save up."

"Whatever," he says, walking towards his desk and sifting through the drawer.

"What're you looking for?" I ask.

"This," he holds up a dime bag, and about fifteen minutes later we're both getting pretty ripped.

"Ever think about moving out?" I ask.

Craig shrugs. I think he's scared to move out. He doesn't want to end up alone in a dark, empty apartment with leaks and weird smells, unable to pay the cheap rent because he spends his money on stupid shit.

"I wish I could," I say, "If I could, I'd leave in a heartbeat. This place has a special way of sucking the life right out of yah. In my case, somewhat literally."

"Yeah…" he mumbles.

"So, gonna confess to Tweek?" I ask, blowing smoke in his face.

"That's the last thing he needs right now," Craig mumbles, "I've told him I was interested a long time ago… But he doesn't want any of that right now."

"Ah, yeah, it's probably best to save the romance until he gets better."

"It doesn't matter," Craig shrugs, "He doesn't love me."

"I love you."

"Stop joking around," he growls.

_I'm not… _

I smile, despite feeling like shit.

"You know," I point out, "Some people… they don't ever get better. It isn't like it is in faggy novels, television, and dramas. Everything likes to glamorize illness, but there's really nothing glamorous about it. Some people can't be _saved_."

"Yeah…"

"Tweek might not get better."

"I know," Craig admits, "I'm trying to prepare for that."

* * *

When it gets dark, I finally leave Craig's house to meet Stan and Kyle. Apparently Eric is coming home tonight…. probably with Wendy…. That'll be interesting.

"Hey, Stan," I say when I arrive at his doorstep.

"Hey," he says, "What've you been doing all day?"

"I went to see Tweek and then I went to Craig's house."

Stan nods, stepping out of his house.

"What about you?" I ask as we get into his car.

"I was at Kyle's."

"Ah," I say, "Did you fuck?"

"No, dude," he gives me a dry look. "We played video games. I want to make up with Wendy."

"Do you really?"

"What do you mean by that?" he raises an eyebrow at me before starting the car and pulling out of the driveway.

"You can't have them both, Stan," I say.

"Ughhh, shut up," he groans, tightening his grip on the steering wheel to a point that looks almost violent.

"That isn't going to help," I chuckle.

"Honestly, I have no idea what to do, dude," he sighs, relaxing his fingers.

"I thought as much," I shrug, sticking my hands in the front pockets of my sweater. "I can't tell you what you are supposed to do. Sorry, man."

"I know," he frowns.

"You'll have to figure it out on your own," I say, "But you will figure it out. Just think about it. I'll help in any way I can."

"It shouldn't be this hard, though," Stan says, "I mean, it has been me and Wendy since we were eight years old. Ever since then, I thought I'd just get married to her… It sucks. When we were young, we never questioned things. We never worried that things might change, that some of us might start drifting apart… We didn't really worry about anything when we were kids."

"Yeah, but at least it made for some interesting adventures," I supply, grinning.

"That's true enough," he chuckles lightly.

"So what about now?"

"Now I'm really confused."

I nod, "Well, how does Kyle make you feel?"

"I don't know, he's my best friend. He's… He's important."

"Well, I suppose you have to figure out how important," I say, "But just know one thing, if you go back to Wendy, Kyle will still be there. He'll forgive you. I can't say the same about Wendy if you choose Kyle. There's also the issue of Eric and how he'll react if you end up with Wendy. Or maybe he'll go all macho-man and beat you up for pissing her off, though I'm sure she could do more damage to you than he ever could."

"Dude…" he pales.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm not trying to persuade you into a certain decision; I'm just telling you what the outcome could be," I continue, "But then again, maybe not. Maybe each of you will be content with the choices you've all made and you will be brought together. Maybe you'll all be happy and you'll all have each other."

Stan grumbles.

"Compare your experiences with Wendy and Kyle. Think about how they make you feel. I mean, sex is one thing, but also try to think about who you enjoy your time with the most. I know you loved Wendy, maybe you still do, but is it the same love you had for her five, or even ten years ago?"

"Yeah… No… Fuck, I don't know."

I smile, "Like I said, take your time. This choice will affect your life."

"No pressure or anything," he sighs.

I laugh, patting his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll make the right choice."

"Kenny," he says, briefly peering over at me, "Out of curiosity, do you know what choice I'll end up making?"

"Yeah," I nod simply.

"Then why can't you just tell me? Help me out a bit?" he asks as we pull into Kyle's driveway.

"I can't do that, Stan," I shake my head, "You know I can't do that. It has to be you making these decisions. You have to figure things out for yourself. If you take the easy way out, you might end up living your life doubting me and, in turn, doubting yourself."

"Fine," he whines. "But… will I really make the right choice?"

I smile, "Yeah, dude."

He lets out a breath, nodding.

"You should try talking it all out with someone when you're ready," I suggest.

"Like who?"

"Anyone you're comfortable with. I'll listen, if you want."

"Thanks."

"Then when you piece your thoughts together, you can tell Kyle and Wendy what you want to do, and see what they think and feel as well."

"Yeah, maybe."

I just smile, looking out the window. Kyle exits his house and jumps in the back seat.

"Okay," I turn around and point my finger at him, "You aren't allowed in the back with Eric, so we're doing a switcheroo after we pick him up. You'll be up here with Stan, and I'll get in the back with Eric."

Kyle laughs, "That's probably a good idea…"

* * *

When we arrive at the airport we find Eric chatting with Wendy. As soon as she spots us, she bids Eric a goodbye and walks off, towing her luggage behind her. Stan looks miserably. I know he probably wants to run after her, but if he truly does want to fix things with her it is probably best to give her some time. After all, he isn't the one who's been hurt.

"Hey, fags," Eric greets us.

Stan opens the trunk, where Eric shoves his bags before hopping in the back seat with me.

"So, as you both probably know, Wendy told me what happened," Eric says, sounding pretty damn smug. "Oh, Kahl, you dirty boy…"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Kyle asks tersely from the passenger seat.

"Kahl, the only thing worse than a ginger Jersey Jew is a gay ginger Jersey Jew."

"Shut the hell up, Cartman!" he screams, turning around.

"I'm driving here, dude," Stan says, "Besides, he's not worth it, Kyle."

"It's going to be tough to keep this piece of ass in line, Marsh. Are you sure you want to commit so soon? I assumed you were above cheating. I guess I was wrong."

"FUCKING –" Kyle continues to scream obscenities.

"I always knew this was going to happen someday," Eric says, looking highly amused, "I just didn't think it would be this dramatic."

"Eric, lay off," I frown.

"Was raping the tight-assed Jew worth losing your girlfriend?" Eric asks, eying Stan in the rear-view mirror.

He's on a roll tonight… Jesus Christ.

Kyle is still shrieking in anger, while Stan cringes but manages to remain tight-lipped. I salute him. It's an especially difficult task to ignore Eric when he's being such a fucking dick.

As soon as we pull into Stan's driveway, Kyle jumps out of the car.

"Kyle," I warn, "Don't do anything stupid."

Clearly ignoring my request, Kyle jumps Eric as soon as he exits the car. He lands a few solid punches to Eric's face before Stan manages to pull him off.

"How come you didn't fight back?" I ask Eric while Stan tries to calm Kyle down.

"He's too small and weak," Eric spits, "I would've killed him."

I chuckle. "He can't be that weak," I say, gesturing to his lip, "He made you bleed."

"It doesn't hurt," he says, wiping the blood off on his sleeve.

"Sure, sure," I grin, "You just don't want to admit that Kyle has a wicked set of fists."

"Kahl's a diabetic pussy."

"I AM NOT A PUSSY," said redhead yells angrily, lunging at Eric once again.

"Guys, stop," I say, putting myself between them.

"No, Kinny, if Kahl _really_ wants a fight, then I can give him one," Eric says, cracking his knuckles.

I put a hand firmly on each of their chests in one final attempt to get them to calm down, but they push me out of the way and directly into a nearby tree.

_Ouch… _

I look down at myself and see a branch protruding from my chest. Fucking _great_.

"Ah, you guys suck so many asses," I rasp, tasting blood.

"Oh, shit!" the three of them say in unison.

I swear, no matter how unlikely something is to happen, it will still happen.

* * *

Of course, I woke up in my bed again and left the house as quietly as I could.

"Where did you go?" they all ask once I get back.

Mrs. Marsh let me inside, walking me to the living room where the guys are watching television.

"You bunch of faggots killed me!" I yell. For emphasis, I pat the spot on my chest where the branch was sticking out from earlier.

Kyle opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it, frowning. "Did we… Did we really?"

"Yeah, you fuckin' well did," I say, turning to Eric, "What did you do with the body?"

"Tossed it in Stark's pond," he supplies unceremoniously.

I roll my eyes at the disgusting normalcy of it all.

Eric has always known, and on many occasions in the past he had been the one to dispose of my body. I don't know what it is that makes him immune to the ignorance that overcomes everyone else. Maybe it's because of how goddamn fucked up he is in the head.

Oh, well.

My parents won't even bury me anymore. I guess burials and funerals and all that shit probably got pretty costly. Now, they just toss my ashes into the wind.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not really angry that they killed me. It isn't the first time and maybe it won't be the last.

"So did you guys at least stop fighting?" I ask, eyeing Kyle and Eric.

To be honest, I don't think Eric really wants to hurt Kyle, he just can't control himself when it comes to the possibility of pissing him off and getting a rise out of him. I know he takes pleasure in that.

"Yes," Kyle mumbles somewhat angrily, giving Eric a look of repulsion.

Eric smiles sweetly at Kyle, who, in turn, mumbles, "Fatass."

"I'm not fat, Kahl, you're just anorexic. Someone needs to feed your skinny ass. What do you weigh?" Eric asks, "50 pounds wet?"

"I'm 120 pounds, fat-tits!"

"Same thing," he says dismissively, "Sorry we can't all have slim hips and perky little tits like you."

Stan puts a hand on Kyle's shoulder in an attempt to keep him calm.

I guess it works well enough, because he doesn't retaliate.

I hope those two morons work things out, because to be honest, I think they belong together. They complement each other perfectly.

And as for Eric… Hell, having a girlfriend as moral as Wendy would be perfect for him.


	6. SM: Distance

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Oh Stan and his drinking problems. Part of me wonders if his cynicism just went away, of if he's constantly just a tiny tiny tiny bit drunk.**

_**Stan's POV**_

* * *

It's nine in the morning. Kyle stayed over last night after Ken and Cartman left.

He is sleeping beside me. I'm not going to wake him. He's not a morning person. He never was.

His head is resting against my shoulder and each time he shifts I find myself looking over at the mess of red hair, satisfied with such simple contact.

And maybe that means something.

I haven't spoken to Wendy yet. She won't hear anything I have to say. I can't blame her for that. She's too angry, betrayed, upset… and she has every right to be.

I hurt her. I hurt her worse than I've probably hurt anyone in my life and that says something considering the things we did in our childhood.

I don't know what made me try to get into Kyle's pants. I wasn't even sure he was interested in me… but I always had a feeling – a small feeling – that he was. At times, I thought it was vain of me to think he liked me like that, but I suppose in the end I was right about it.

Kyle loves me. He told me. He cried, and said, "I love you."

All I could say was, "I know."

Am I an asshole? Yeah, maybe.

I used him. I used Kyle, my best friend in the entire world.

I was always a little selfish when it came to Kyle. I dragged him into a lot of trouble when we were kids, but this time it was different. This time it's worse.

I was above him, inside of him, and I couldn't even look at him. I couldn't face him knowing what I was doing. Often, he moaned into the pillows and the long sounds were like a sobs, but I kept it up. I think he was crying at times, and I knew I was hurting him in more ways than one. I took advantage of the feelings he had for me, knowing he probably wouldn't protest.

And I think I was right. He sounded like he was in pain, but he didn't once resist… Then again, maybe he did and I just wasn't paying enough attention. Maybe I was too busy pretending he was Wendy.

However… as it began to happen more frequently, I became well aware that it was not Wendy. It was Kyle.

And I found that I didn't mind.

So what does that mean?

Am I in love with Kyle, or do I still love Wendy?

Kenny gave me a lot to think about. I keep repeating the questions in my head, trying to come up with answers, but it's a lot harder than it sounds.

It should be simple, shouldn't it?

Do I love Wendy? Yes or no.

Do I love Kyle? Yes or no.

I loved Wendy, yeah. But maybe I don't love her now.

I've always loved Kyle, but more recently I've been questioning what kind of love I have for him. Is it friend-love, or is it love-love?

I feel so fucking gay contemplating all of this, no pun intended. I feel like I'm a confused kid again.

Kyle shifts beside me again, and I turn around and face him as he opens his eyes.

"Hey," I say.

"Hi," he mumbles back in a voice laced in fatigue.

"Sleep okay?"

"Fine."

I've been trying to make things as comfortable and normal between us as possible. I think we're both recovering from what happened.

Is recovering even the right word? Probably not.

Moving on? Maybe… But do I want that to happen? I'm still not sure. I guess I should probably talk to Kyle about all of this at some point. I'm just not sure how to bring it up. I also need to talk with Wendy, tell her that I'm sorry. Maybe I should also talk to Kenny about all of this before speaking with Kyle or Wendy. It's always easy talking things out with him. He helps you put your thoughts together without even trying.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that yes, I am sorry. I'm sorry for hurting Wendy, but I'm not sorry for sleeping with Kyle. Maybe it was a mistake, but not in the way I had first thought it was. The only regret I have about the experience is that it wasn't more pleasant. I know that each time, it hurt him. I hurt him when I said Wendy's name, when I told him he was easy, and when all I said was "I know" after he told me he loved me. I suppose I did a lot of fucking stupid things.

It reminds me of something Chef always used to say.

"_There's a time and place for everything, and it's called college."_

I miss him. He always had the best advice, and right about now I could really use some of it.

I knew I would inevitably make a few mistakes in college, but I didn't think they'd be this big.

I'm not condoning or justifying what I did, but I'm recognizing it for what it was. I suppose that's all I really can do for now.

"I can practically hear the gears in your head turning. What are you thinking about?" Kyle asks, sitting up and giving me a look.

"Nothing," I say dismissively.

"I doubt that," he mumbles. "You keep spacing out."

"Sorry, dude, just one of those days I guess."

I get out of the bed and stretch my limbs. Kyle watches me with a somewhat unsure expression.

"We doing anything today?" I ask, opening the top drawer to my dresser and grabbing a bottle of rum.

He shrugs, eying the bottle. "It's fucking early, don't drink…"

"It's fine, dude."

"No, _dude_, it isn't fine," he hisses, jumping out of the bed and grabbing the bottle from me.

"Give it back."

He shakes his head angrily, "No, I really don't think this is how you should solve your Wendy problem. You aren't a reckless, stupid ten year old anymore. Drinking isn't the way to fix your shitty mood."

"Wendy isn't the problem!" I find myself yelling. "You are!"

He softens, "What do you mean…?"

I sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed and sandwiching my head between my legs.

"Stan?" his voice cracks, and I feel him sit down next to me. God, I hate it when he says my name like that. It reminds me of when we were kids, and I'd do something that upset him or scare him. Though, I guess this whole situation is a little worse than anything I did to him when we were kids. But hell, I was pretty fucking awful to him at times. I'm still surprised he stuck around this long.

I don't speak for a while. I'm trying to figure out what it is I want to say. I'm trying to pick out the right words.

"Kyle…" I look up at him.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"…Never mind."

He raises an eyebrow, "Never mind?"

"It's nothing."

Kyle sighs, sounding exasperated and frustrated, and generally annoyed with me. I guess he has a right to be. "I'm going home," he says, standing up. "Maybe I'll see you later on."

"Okay," I mumble.

"And before I go," he pauses at the door, "do not fucking touch that bottle of alcohol."

I wave him off, but as soon as he is gone I find myself reaching for the bottle.

* * *

Many long and brutal hours later, I am still locked away in my now dim room in an attempt to chase away my hangover.

I'm lying naked under a blanket with a pillow over my face. I feel too hot and too cold, both at the same time.

"Stanley?" my mom had asked minutes later after opening my door. She sounded timid, like she knew I was doing something I shouldn't be.

I pretended I was asleep, and she didn't pry. She didn't pull the pillow off my face. Instead, she sent my dad up to check on me.

"Stan," he says after waltzing right inside.

I push the pillow off my face and peer up at him. The dim light in the room causes me to squint.

"Stanley, are you drunk?"

"No."

"Hung-over?"

"No," I say, putting the pillow back on my face.

"You're too young to drink," he scolds.

"I wasn't drinking."

"I know the signs of a fresh hangover when I see them, son."

"You would," I mumble.

He dismisses the comment, "Why don't you tell your old man what this is all about?"

I groan. This is not what I want to be doing. It's always been damn near impossible talking to my dad because he's such a moron.

"Nothing, Dad," I say, "It's nothing."

"It doesn't seem like it's nothing," he pauses, "Just answer me this: You didn't get anyone pregnant, did you? Is Wendy –"

"Jesus Christ…" I hiss. "No."

"Then what else could it be about?" he continues to pry, "or _who?_"

Try _two_ who's…

"It's complicated," I say.

"Aren't most things, though?"

"I fucked a friend," I say bluntly, squinting as I sit up. I might as well just admit it since he isn't going to leave unless I do. "I cheated on Wendy."

He doesn't look as shocked at my admittance as I thought he would have. He also doesn't scold me for cussing. He just looks thoughtful. "With Kyle?" he asks.

I almost choke on my spit, "How did you know that?"

"Well, Stan," he laughs, "I may be an idiot, but I'm not that much of an idiot. You two were always a little… _funny_… with each other. There has been many occasions where your mother and I have walked in on you two sleeping a little too closely together."

"You don't care?"

"Well, as you may know, I've experimented in the past…"

"Gross, Dad!" I shout, causing my head to ache even worse, "I don't need to know _that_!"

"It's your life, Stan. Do what you want with it, who am I to tell you any different, considering the things I've done in the past? It's hardly my business what, or who, you do in the bedroom."

"Thanks, Dad…" I say somewhat awkwardly.

I lay back down after he leaves, covering my face with the pillow again.

I'm not going to think about anything yet, it'll only make my headache worse. I'll sleep off my hangover, and then I'll decide what to do.


	7. SM: Closer

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**_Stan's POV_**

* * *

"Dude, I need help," I say to Kenny over the phone.

It's fairly late into the night, but my hangover is finally gone for the most part and I can't sleep anymore.

"With what?" he asks, though I'm sure he already knows.

"I don't know what to do."

"Okay, speak and you shall be heard," he says humbly.

"Am I a bad person?" I ask.

"No," he says without hesitance.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you want to be a good person," he explains simply.

"And that makes me a good person? Wanting to be good?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"Would a bad person want to be good?" he asks before answering his own question, "Probably not."

"I suppose so," I consider. "Do you think Kyle thinks I'm a bad person?"

"No," Kenny says, "But if it's going to bother you, just ask him."

"Yeah… maybe."

"Now stop with all this self-pitying bullshit. Now tell me what else is going on in the mind of Stan Marsh."

"It should be simple… shouldn't it?" I say.

"The Kyle and Wendy stuff?"

"Yeah."

I hear him laugh "Love is never simple."

"And how would you know?" I ask. As far as I know, Kenny's never been in love. He hasn't even had a girlfriend since we were kids.

"Hard as it may be to believe," he starts, bitterly, "I, Kenny McCormick, am capable of love."

"You're in love?" I ask, somewhat surprised.

"Yeah," he admits, "I guess I am."

"I didn't know…"

"Well it is kind of a secret, so don't go around telling everyone."

I smile to myself.

"But enough about me –"

"No, no," I cut him off. "Who is it?"

"Not telling."

"What? Why not? You can't just leave me hanging like that."

"Too bad."

I grumble audibly, knowing that it was no use prying into Kenny's secrets. "Fine."

"So, as I was saying, enough about me, you called to talk about your Kyle and Wendy stuff?"

"I know," I sigh. "I needed an ear. It's easier to get my thoughts together when I'm talking to you."

"Well, glad I can be of service."

"Ken," I say, "What would you define love as?"

"Hell, I don't know. Maybe it's not something that can be defined. Maybe that's why we have that simple four letter word. I mean, it's a feeling. Can you describe a feeling?"

"Maybe not… but can you try?"

"Hmm… Well, I guess it is the feeling of needing someone emotionally as well as physically. You want to keep them safe, while at the same time you want them to keep you safe as well. I think it means wanting things for them, but from them as well. Love is pretty selfish, in my opinion."

"I feel like I need Kyle, physically and emotionally," I admit.

"Do you feel that way about Wendy?"

"Honestly… I used to."

"But now?"

"Now I don't."

"Wendy is an idea you have gotten so familiar with, then Kyle swoops in and messes you all up. He confused you. He is new and unfamiliar in that sense. I mean, you've probably never imagined being with a guy, let alone Kyle. I mean, you are the one to blame for being in this. I know Kyle wasn't the one to pull the moves on you, he's too awkward for something that bold. You didn't have to go use Kyle like that, but you did. You knew he wouldn't push you away, and now you have to deal with all these consequences you hadn't predicted."

"Maybe…"

"Stan, I think you have your answer. I think you've had your answer all along, but it scares you. Maybe all Kyle did is help show you what you want."

"I know," I say, feeling small and sounding smaller.

"Yeah, Kyle's a guy, but so what? People don't fall in love with an idea, or a gender, they fall in love with the person within all of that. Have a little trust in yourself," Kenny says, "Don't think of how Wendy will react if you choose to be with Kyle, or how Kyle will react if you choose to try and fix things with Wendy. That will only persuade your choice in the end. Think only of yourself."

"Isn't that selfish?" I ask.

"I already told you that love _is_ selfish," he laughs. "Love makes people selfish, more than money and more than power."

"Shouldn't it be the opposite, though? Shouldn't people have enough respect to let someone go if they can't return their feelings?"

"Maybe," Kenny says, thoughtfully, "But that usually isn't how things work. It's hard to let someone go. Besides, Kyle does love you, and I think Wendy does too, she's just hurting."

"Yeah," I whisper into the receiver. "I think I know what I have to do."

"Good luck, Stan."

"Before you hang up, I have a request."

"Yeah?" he asks.

"If I'm going to do this, you should too."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell whoever it is you love that you love them."

"Heh…" Kenny snickers. "I'll think about it."

"Don't think, just do."

"We'll see," he mumbles before hanging up.

* * *

The next day I walk to the Broflovski residence. My heart is beating pretty fast, but I'm trying to calm down. It's just Kyle. I shouldn't be so nervous. Kyle is my best friend and he's going to stay my best friend no matter what.

Ike lets me in, and I make my way up the stairs and into Kyle's room.

"Hey," he says, looking over at me from his seat at his desk.

"Hey."

"What's up?" he asks, closing a large textbook.

I don't say anything for a minute. I just sit down on his bed and pat the spot beside me.

He raises an eyebrow, but stands up and sits down beside me nonetheless.

"I want to try something," I say.

He tilts his head to the side, giving me a weird look.

I lean forward and touch our lips together, lightly at first. He presses into me for a second before pulling back.

"No…" he whispers, turning away. "You've already tried _that_."

"Kyle –"

"Stan," his voice cracks, "I can't… Don't do this to me again..."

"I'm sorry, Kyle."

He's silent.

"Can I say something before you kick me out?"

"I'm not going to kick you out," he says.

"Okay, but I still need to say this."

He doesn't reply, he simply waits for me as I try to put my words together.

"I'm going to try and fix things with Wendy," I say. Kyle's expression doesn't change, he keeps a neutral face.

"Okay."

"I'm going to try and fix things with her… But I don't want to get back together with her. I just want to make it up to her…"

"Make sure you're doing it for the right reasons," Kyle says, "Don't just make it up to her to make yourself feel better about what we did. I've already told her I was sorry, and you should too, but make sure you're not doing it selfishly."

"I know," I nod, "I've been thinking a lot about everything that happened, I'm not sorry for what we did, I just wish I didn't hurt you and Wendy in the process."

"Yeah…" he whispers.

"Kyle, I'm really sorry I hurt you."

"It's okay, Stan," he says, though we both know it's far from okay.

"I want to make it up to you as well."

"How?"

"Let me take you out," I request. "I want to do it right this time."

"What do you mean?"

"I… Well, I'm, uh… picking you," I say awkwardly.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks carefully.

I nod.

"How can you be sure that I'm what you want?"

"I just am," I say, "Trust me, I've given it a lot of thought."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So we're really going to do this?"

I nod, "If you want to, that is."

He rolls his eyes, "Do you know how long I've been waiting for this?"

I smile wider, pulling him into my chest.

He laughs into my chest before beginning to sob.

"Those better be happy tears," I mumble into his hair.

"I'm happy," he says, voice muffled by the fabric of my shirt.

And I'm happy too. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders and my heart is no longer threatening to jump out my throat. Maybe Kenny is right, maybe I've always known, deep down. Maybe it has always been Kyle. Kyle, who is beautiful and destructive, but mostly beautiful. He's so many things that Wendy isn't, and maybe that's what I love about him.

Now I just have to tell Wendy how sorry I am and hope that she'll be able to find her own happiness.

* * *

I spent most of the day with Kyle. We didn't kiss again after the first time; instead we talked and played video games. It felt nice to spend time like that, the way we used to before I fucked everything up. We'll take things slow this time. I think that's for the best. I'm not going to ruin this again.

Wendy agreed to meet me at Harbucks. I called her after leaving Kyle's place. She was with Cartman. I guess they've been spending a lot of time with each other since they've… slept together…

I feel nervous. Cartman didn't want her to go, and I think that is ultimately what made her agree to see me. "You don't own me, Eric," I heard her growl at him, and immediately afterward she told me she'd meet me. I thought that was funny, and a very Wendy thing to do, and maybe Cartman knew that all along. I wouldn't put it past him. He can be good sometimes… in his messed up own way.

"Hello, Stan," she says, sitting in a chair across from me.

"H-hey," I mumble, sliding a cup across the table to her. "I already ordered for you. It's ginger tea," I say when she looks at her cup questioningly, "Your favorite."

"Oh, thank you," she says, wrapping her fingers around the cup. "I suppose it's best we settle things maturely."

"Yeah," I nod, before taking a sip of my own drink.

"You start."

I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry for hurting you, Wendy, I really am… But the more I thought about what happened, the more I began to realize something."

"And what was that?" she asked, not sounding malicious, but rather genuinely curious.

"I don't regret sleeping with Kyle," I admit. "Sure, I wish the circumstances had been different, but… Jesus Christ, I like him. Maybe I even love him."

She simply nods, taking in the information. "I thought so… At times, I found myself wondering what you were doing with me when he was all that was on your mind."

"I'm sorry, Wendy."

"I know, Stan," she sighs, "I'm sorry, too. I didn't go about it the best way. I shouldn't have gone to Eric. That was cruel and immature of me. To be honest… I always had a feeling it would be Kyle in the end. I knew he would be the reason we broke up. You never looked at me anymore, not really… At least, not the way I wanted you to look at me. Not the way you looked at me when we were younger. You stopped looking at me that way so long ago, and you began looking at Kyle in that way. I knew there were secret things going on each time we would all hang out, like the way you two would sit so closely together. Somehow, I knew it was inevitable. I thought to myself that it would make sense for you both to be in love because isn't that how it happens in so many films and novels out there? I began to notice it, but I tried so hard to ignore it. When I walked into that room and saw you both lying together tangled in sheets… I wasn't as shocked as I should have been. I walked in on my boyfriend naked under the covers with his best friend and I wasn't surprised. That's when I realized that deep down, I knew it all along. I don't think that you even knew what was happening yet. You're kind of naïve in that way," she smiles softly. "I wasn't fair. I should have ended things a long time ago. We shouldn't have tried so hard to fix it every time we broke up."

"Kenny says love makes people selfish… More than money, more than power, it's love."

"He's right."

"I think we're all guilty of doing selfish things in the name of love."

"I think so too."

I laugh softly before changing the subject, "He likes you, you know… Cartman, I mean."

"I know."

"I think he's been into you for a long time, ever since you kissed him when we were children."

"I know," she says again.

"Are you seeing him now?"

"Yes," she admits, with a small smile.

"You'll be good for him," I say. "You have a good set of morals, you might even cancel out some of his psychopathic tendencies and be a positive influence on him."

She laughs, "Maybe."

"Hell," I shrug, "It's weird, isn't it?"

"It is. I was thinking about it earlier. It's strange the way things work out. Everything changes when you get older. Life is funny like that. Eric and I, you and Kyle… I wonder if it was obvious, and we were just blind to it for so long. I feel like I don't understand how it truly happened, even now."

"Kenny understood," I say. "He made sense of it all... I feel like he already had an idea that all this would happen."

"He always knows, doesn't he?"

I nod, "He's kind of special like that."

She reaches for my hand across the table, "Friends?"

I nod, taking her hand. "Forever."

I can breathe easy now.

Kenny had once told me we are more than our past mistakes. I think I know that now, and maybe, in time, I'll be able to forgive myself for all these mistakes.

* * *

"Hey," Kyle says as he walks into my room the following night.

I roll back the covers, inviting him to get in bed.

"That's gay," the jokes, even though we've done it a thousand times before.

I roll my eyes. "Get in here, butthole."

He chuckles, getting under the covers with me.

"Kyle?" I ask tentatively.

"Mm?"

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are, Stan," he whispers. "You don't need to say it anymore. I already forgave you. I could tell from the moment it had happened that you would be sorry. I feel like I can always tell these things when it comes to you."

I pull him into my chest and hike the blankets up.

"Am I a bad person?" I ask, so softly I wonder if Kyle hears it.

"No, you're not a bad person."

I can feel myself begin to drift to sleep mere seconds later, as if that one frightening possibility was keeping me awake. I think it has been, for a long time.

I shut my eyes, listening to the soft sounds of Kyle's breathing and feeling the pattern of his heart beats.

I love this place, right here…

I love this place.


	8. KM: Nights like this

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**r&r! **

**_Kenny's POV_**

* * *

"This is boring," I sigh. We're parked near Stark's Pond and Craig just lit his sixth cigarette since we've stopped here.

"Yup," he says, "Nice and boring, just the way I like it."

I frown, puffing up my cheeks.

He grimaces, "You're not as cute as you think."

"But you admit I'm cute," I wink.

"… Maybe," he mumbles, leaning back in the car seat, "When you're not being such a fag."

I take the cigarette from between Craig's lips, inhale, and then blow the smoke back into his face.

He gives me an irritated look, but doesn't say anything else for a while.

"Hey…" he starts.

"Hm?"

"What's it like to lose everything?" he asks.

I laugh, rolling down the window to let some of the smoke escape. "What do you mean by that?"

"That's what dying is, right?" Craig continues, "It's losing everything you have, everything you know, everything you are?"

"In a way… maybe it is."

"So what's it like?"

"Quiet, if you can imagine," I say, trying to explain it to him as best as I can. I don't think it's possible to accurately word what it's really like. Putting it to words always makes it seem less horrible.

"Oh."

But I suppose it can be quiet here, too.

* * *

When we arrive back to Craig's house we fling off our clothes unceremoniously and his crappy death metal playlist is on full blast in the background. I don't get how he can listen to this shit. Least of all, I don't get why this is the type of music he chooses to use as his sexual soundtrack… Then again, maybe it's only with me. And maybe that makes sense. This definitely isn't movie-type romance. It's far from it. This is all pretty angry and desperate and miserable, just like those songs.

Once he's naked, he sits on his bed, up against the headboard.

After preparing myself properly for once, I position myself over him and sink slowly into his lap before moving my hips.

He has his eyes closed again.

"Fuck," I breathe out between shaky pants, digging my nails into his shoulders. I'm probably hurting him, but he doesn't say anything. He just digs his fingers into my hipbones and I let out a quiet string of moans.

_I love you._

We're close enough to kiss, but we don't. Of course we don't.

_I love you…_

_I fucking love you…_

_Why can't you see that?_

* * *

Craig drops me off at Stan's later on in the day. The guys are all standing around in the driveway waiting for me.

"Kenny, you look like shit," Eric laughs at me through the rolled down window.

"Eat me," I yawn, stepping out of the car carefully. My butt hurts, even though I was careful this time.

Eric laughs some more, "You look like you just got good and fucked."

Well… yeah, I did, but Eric definitely doesn't need to know that –

"Oh, yeah, McCormick likes it rough," Craig cuts in nonchalantly, "He's into all that weird kinky shit."

Kyle laughs loudly and Stan makes a face, while Eric simply raises an eyebrow. "And you know all of this how…?" he pauses and begins waving his hand dismissively, "You know what? Never mind, I don't even want to know."

My lips part in annoyance, causing Craig to snicker and say, "Dicks don't fly, McCormick, though I'm sure you wish they did. It must hurt spending so much time on your knees."

"You're funny, Craig," I say, somewhat bitterly, "I didn't know that about you."

He just smirks before pulling out of the driveway.

"What a bastard," I mumble after he's gone.

Kyle laughs, "Was he serious, dude?"

"Of course not," I grimace, "Like I'd fuck that ugly asshole."

An obvious lie and a pretty weak insult, but hey, I'm allowed to keep my own secrets. I'm not looking to bother anyone with my problems, especially when they have so much of their own shit to deal with.

"Ah, Craig isn't bad to look at," Kyle shrugs, "He's definitely a bit of an asshole, though."

"A huge asshole," I correct.

"Plus he has crooked teeth," Eric supplies as the four of us walk inside Stan's house.

"His teeth aren't that bad," I reason, because they're really not. Besides, I think it's one of the few things he is actually self-conscious of, no thanks to Eric's constant taunts when we were kids.

"Who did you guys get to buy the booze this time?" I ask as we settle in the kitchen. Sharon and Randy are gone to Florida for the week, so an opportunity like this called for celebration.

I don't think Sharon and Randy are very fond of me. It's probably because my father. My father used to be friends with Randy and Gerald, but now they both hate him. I don't blame them. If I wasn't his son, I'd probably hate him too. But he's my dad, so I can't.

"Shelley," Stan says.

I lift an eyebrow, "She actually agreed to it?"

Stan frowns, "I had to pay her extra for the energy she would have to exert going down to the liquor store."

"Not surprised," I laugh.

Stan Marsh drinks more than I do. I guess it's one of the things he's never really grown out of. He's been getting people to buy him liquor since he was a fucking child.

If you were to ask me, I'd say that it's fine to drink with friends, but when you start drinking alone then you know there's a problem. I think Stan still drinks by himself sometimes.

"Where is Shelley going to be tonight?" I ask.

"With her boyfriend."

"Ah," I say. To be honest, I'm glad she won't be here. I can't stand her.

"So, what's everyone having?" Stan asks, going into the cupboard and grabbing a bottle of spiced rum, and a bottle of raspberry vodka.

"Raspberry vodka?" I cringe, after reading the label.

Stan shrugs, handing us each a glass. "I told Shelley to just get whatever."

"Sounds kind of gnarly," I say, pouring myself a glass.

"Sounds like something dainty little Kahl would drink if he could."

"Dainty," I laugh, "Kyle is many things, but I wouldn't say dainty is one of them."

"I don't know whether I should be annoyed or pleased," Kyle says, sipping on a glass of water. He doesn't like to drink. I think it has something to do with those insulin shots he takes. Eric never misses a chance to laugh at him over that little tidbit of information. I've asked him if it bothers him that we drink, but he's insisted it doesn't. I think he finds it entertaining to watch us all make idiots out of ourselves. I also don't think he minds taking care of us when one of us takes things a little too far. He reminds me of Craig in that way, always helping me when I've had too much.

"Look at how he drinks!" Eric points, "If that isn't dainty I don't know what is."

Kyle rolls his eyes and I half expect him to spit his water out into Eric's face, but he doesn't.

"Dude, do you have sprite or lemonade or something?" I ask.

Stan nods, "Sprite okay?"

"Yeah," I say, thanking him after he hands me a can. "This stuff… I don't even know how to describe it."

"Personally," Eric states, "I would describe it as gay."

I snicker.

"And that is why I brought my own drink," he says, pulling whisky out of his bag.

"Disgusting," Kyle grimaces.

"It's a man's drink," Eric corrects him, "Kyle, you are not yet a man."

"Oh, really?" he asks dryly, giving Eric the stink-eye.

"Really," Eric says, chugging straight from the bottle while keeping a perfectly neutral expression.

I don't know how he does it. Whisky has never been something I could keep down for long.

* * *

As the night progresses, we find our way in the living room. Stan and Eric are sitting on the floor playing video games and Kyle and I are on the sofa, watching.

"So," Kyle quietly says, "You and Craig?"

I turn to face him, "No –"

"Don't lie," he warns.

"Okay, fine," I say somewhat tersely. "Yeah, me and Craig… Kind of."

"Goddamn, for how long?"

I don't say anything.

"Kenny," Kyle nudges me, "Come on. We're friends."

"Kyle…"

"Come oooon," he says, repeatedly poking me in the side.

"Okay, okay," I relent. "We first got it on when we were fourteen, but I've been interested in him since we were fuckin' twelve."

"That's a really long time."

"I know."

"Do you love him?"

"I guess so," I say, "How'd you put all this together anyway? Usually I'm the one who solves these little mysteries."

Kyle grins, "Stan told me you loved someone."

"Ah, Stan, you traitor," I yell over at him.

"Huh? What did I do?" he asks airily without turning around. He doesn't sound like he's all there, so I don't bother answering. I suppose I'm not so angry. Maybe it's best not to have any secrets.

"Heh," Kyle snickers, "Does Craig love you?"

"Nah."

"Does he know you love him?"

"Nah."

"You should tell him."

"I know."

"He deserves to know, I think."

"I know."

"You might feel better once you tell him, even if nothing comes out of it."

"I know."

"Dude, is that all you're going to say?"

"Sorry, sorry," I sigh, "It's pretty complicated."

"Is he ever nice to you?"

I snort, "Not really."

Kyle frowns, "He's emotionally selfish."

"I think we're all a little emotionally selfish," I say, "Craig is just more so."

Kyle smiles a bit, "He doesn't want to get hurt."

"Who does?" I chuckle, "But I guess… He can be nice sometimes, now that I think of it. There have been times when he's tried, so I guess that counts."

"Yeah, I'd say that counts," Kyle agrees.

"We can hear you guys," Eric interrupts loudly.

"Yeah, that's fine," I say.

"It's funny," Eric continues, "How you all turned out to be a bunch of faggots."

"Eric, as kids, you were stereotypically the gayest of us all," I say, "Putting Butter's fuckin' dick in your mouth, dressing in drag and seducing old dudes, and lest we forget Hennifer Lopez. It's ironic how you're the one who ended up with a girl."

"Yeah, well…" Eric mumbles, "That was a long-ass time ago."

"Dude, you gave some guy a blowjob."

"How'd you know about that?" Eric asks, "You were dead."

"Kyle and Stan kindly filled me on it."

Eric growls. "I was young! I thought it was a straw!"

I snort, "A fucking straw, dude, seriously."

"Hey!" Eric shouts, "You sucked cock before too."

"Well, shit, yeah. I do it all the time," I shrug.

He cringes before collecting himself, "I mean as a kid, ass-wipe."

I laugh, "But I'm not the _straight_ one."

Eric groans, clearly irritated.

"Just admit it," I reason with him, "You had some gender identity issues going on."

"So what?" Eric asks, miffed.

"Does Wendy know?" I grin.

"Don't you fucking dare tell her!" he says, looking mortified.

Kyle laughs loudly.

The night is going by pretty smoothly. Usually someone gets too drunk and hurls, or someone gets too drunk and cries… But none of us are puking or sobbing yet, so it's a good sign.

By "someone", I'll admit that I mean Stan is always the one to cry and I'm always the one to puke. Eric prides himself on never doing either of those things.

Ah, well.

Stan and Eric return to playing video games, bickering over who is winning.

"Kenny, you're not a God," Kyle says, turning to me. "So stop pretending you are. You're a human being, just like me, just like Stan… Just like Cartman and just like Craig. Humans need contact from other humans, not just physically, but mentally as well."

"I think I'll tell him," I say.

"Good."

"I don't know if he'll believe me," I admit, "I've tried before, and he brushed it off like a joke. It hurt… But I guess I should do it more tactfully next time."

Kyle smiles sympathetically, "Prove it to him, look him in the eye and don't look away until he understands."

"Yeah…" I mumble, chewing on my thumb.

I already know how this will go, but I guess Craig still deserves to hear it.


	9. KM: So you can't run away

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**School is coming to an end and I've started working on a new south park fic. This time it's k2 again! My otp~ I've been having k2 withdrawal since finishing C_ursed_ eheheh. **

**r&r ! **

**_Kenny's POV_**

* * *

I'll tell Craig I love him. I'll tell him, and he'll probably respond awkwardly, or dismiss my admission altogether, but I don't care about that... Well, I guess I do care, because I can't sleep and I'm crying in Stan's bathroom but since no one else is here I'll just keep pretending I'm not.

Hell, I've been crying a lot lately and it's annoying. It's as if that time back in Craig's room something in my mind just snapped and now I just can't stop.

"Kenny?" I hear a knock at the door, "Are you in there?"

Ah, fuck. Not now, Kyle...

"Yeah," I call, trying to make my voice sound even.

"Let me in," he says.

I turn the lights off before opening the door.

"Can't a guy shit in peace?" I joke.

He doesn't laugh, instead he frowns, "You weren't taking a crap, dude, you're crying… And most people don't do both unless they are Eric Cartman after eating chipotle."

I make a face, "Tsk, man… Fuckin' gross."

He cracks a small, tired sort of half-smile.

"Ugh," I groan. "Sometimes I really hate him…"

"Cartman?"

"No, Craig," I say bitterly.

"It's said that the line between love and hate is fine," Kyle offers, wrapping his arms around me and rubbing my back.

"I guess so," I grit, briefly resting my chin on his shoulder.

"You know," he says, letting go of me and looking me in the eye, "When you're upset, you should tell us."

I force a look of apathy, shrugging, "Dude, none of you were around."

"I know… I'm sorry, but we are all here now?"

"Yeah, but you are also busy dealing with your own love-problems."

"Yeah," he sighs, "But things are okay now."

"He chose you," I say.

Kyle nods. "You completely disregarded your own problems when you feel like someone needs you. You always do that… Ever since we were little kids."

"That's what friends are for," I shrug.

He shakes his head, "It's supposed to go both ways. I guess we were being pretty shitty friends. We didn't even realize you were sad."

"I'm not sad," I laugh, "I'm fairly content… I guess some stuff in my life makes me pretty fucking miserable, but all-in-all I'm okay."

I'm okay...

Am I?

Kyle looks apologetic, and I can tell he doesn't believe me. "Okay, well that's good at least."

"Ugh," I wipe my eyes, "Why does crying make people so damn tired?"

Kyle tilts his head to the side, "Well, people tend to cry due to something stressful, which causes the tears. Stress isn't healthy, and crying is like a release for all this stress and emotion you may be feeling. It's an emotional workout, and not only that, but the body is also working to help relieve you of this stress. Your tear-ducts are working, and you're facial muscles are moving. There's an old saying: 'it takes more muscles to frown than to smile' and it is true. I don't know about you, but when I cry I am certainly not smiling."

Trust Kyle to actually have the answer to a question like that.

"I guess so…" I frown. "Do you think it's too late to call Craig?"

"It's around 3AM," he shrugs, "He might still be awake…"

To be honest, I want to get it over with. So I pull out my crappy cell phone and dial his number.

Knowing Craig, he's probably still awake. He's probably drunk, maybe on his way home from a party or something.

"Yeah?" comes his nasally voice.

"Hey, it's me," I say.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Are you home?"

"Yeah."

"Can I come over?"

"I guess…" he says, "I'll meet you half way."

"You don't need to do that."

"Yeah, I do. I need some fresh air."

"Are you drunk?"

"Sobering up."

"Did you puke?"

"No, only you do that."

I roll my eyes even though he can't see it. So far, I haven't puked tonight. Hopefully it'll stay that way. "Okay, I'll see you in a bit," I say before hanging up and pocketing my phone.

"So you're going to see him?"

"Yeah," I nod.

"Good luck," he says, giving me a small smile

"Thanks," I smile back, "With Craig Tucker… I'm sure I'll be needing it."

"Also," Kyle starts, "Don't worry about Stan, Eric, or I anymore. We've all begun to deal with our problems. It's your turn now."

"Okay, I'll try."

Kyle walks with me to the door. I apologize for fucking up the night. I thought that, for once, we'd make it through without anyone crying or puking. For once, Stan wasn't the one who ended up in tears.

Naturally, Kyle insists that it's all fine and tells me he'll be here for me. I thank him, he waves, and then I leave.

* * *

It's fairly cool outside, but nothing compared to our long winters so I can't complain. You can tell summer is starting to leave.

When I spot Craig, he's smoking a cigarette. He's wearing plaid pyjama pants, a large sweater, and boots. His hair is sticking up from beneath his blue hat and he looks messy, but still perfect. I was lying grossly when I said he was ugly. Craig Tucker could be described as being many negative things, but ugly definitely isn't one of them, even with slightly crooked teeth. In a way, they're endearing.

I don't say anything when we're face-to-face, I just wrap my arms around him and press my face into his shoulder.

He doesn't push my away, he just pats my back slowly with the hand that isn't holding the cigarette.

"Rough night?" he asks.

"Not really," I say, "It was nice… Being with them all again like that was nice. It felt like we were young again."

"That's good…" he mumbles. "Hey, what's wrong with you? You're shaking."

"It's cold outside, retard."

He's probably rolling his eyes at me right about now.

"Craig?" I ask, pulling away.

"Mm?"

"I meant it when I said I loved you. I know that in its context, it sounded like a joke… but it wasn't a joke. I'm serious. I… I really love you." I probably sound desperate. Shit, I guess I kind of am. I need him to understand that I'm not joking around this time.

He's silent for a long time until finally saying, "Oh."

I laugh, even though it isn't funny. "Is that all you have to say?"

He just stares at me. I can't quite read the expression on his face, but whatever it is, I know it's not the one I want it to be.

I knew it would happen like this, but at least it's over now.

I begin to turn away, but he grabs my arm.

"Sorry," he says.

I force a smile, "Don't be. This isn't your fault. It's literally all mine."

"Come on," he lowers his grip to my wrist, "We should talk about this…"

"We don't –" I start to protest, but he drags me with him. He tosses the cigarette and wraps his hand around mine, shoving them both in his pocket.

"You're holding my hand," I state.

"So you can't run away."

Of course he'd have an excuse like that ready.

I guess I run away from a lot of things. Maybe that's what I'm doing when I'm busy saying I'm happy, I'm okay, I'm fine.

* * *

The walk to his place was silent and mildly uncomfortable. His expression didn't change once. I often found myself looking over just to see if it would.

"What did you do tonight anyway?" I question after we've settled on his bed.

"Went to Bebe's with Clyde, Token, and Nichole," he mumbles back.

"Ah, how are they all doing?"

"They're fine."

"That's good…"

"Why don't you hate me?" he asks suddenly.

"Because I love you."

I guess the more I say it, the easier comes out.

"Tch… that isn't what I mean," he says.

"I know," I laugh. "I don't resent you for loving someone who isn't me… I used to, but not anymore. It was stupid of me."

I think it's something I've gotten used to. Besides, I can't be angry at something that fits together so perfectly. Craig and Tweek… I'm not surprised in the least and never before have I met two people more dependent on each other for survival. If they don't make up they're just going to continue to waste away until there's nothing left of either of them. I hope for both of their sake they find balance with each other soon.

"How long have you felt like this?" Craig asks in an uncharacteristically gentle voice.

"Heh," I force a smile, "Trust me when I say a really long time."

"Why didn't you tell me before?" he turns his head to look at me.

"Because, no matter how much I hoped, I knew you couldn't return it. What would be the point?"

Craig frowns, his eyebrows drawing together, "How do you know that, though?"

"Because you're into Tweek."

"Tweek is sick," he says, "I don't know if he'll ever get better. He might not. Plus, I've spoken to him about this sort of thing before. He has told me more than once that he doesn't see himself ever being with someone. He doesn't think he could handle the pressure of it…"

"That may change... And besides," I shake my head, "I don't want to be second best."

"That hasn't stopped you before…"

"Craig, not cool," I scowl.

"Okay, sorry," he holds up his hand, "Give me some time."

"It's okay, Craig, you can't just stop loving the person you love."

"I could learn to love you?"

"It means a lot to me that you're actually willing to try… But even if you could, I wouldn't want you to."

"I didn't think you would."

"I love you," I mumble, my voice sounding wet.

"Yeah… I know that now," he says humbly, staring up at the ceiling.

"I love you," I repeat.

"Yeah," he says again, and then, "I'm sorry."

I let out a breath and wipe my nose on his blanket.

"Gross, dude," he says.

I just laugh, though it sounds hollow, even to my own ears.


	10. KM: This little game called life

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Why am I so mean to Kenny?**

**_Kenny's POV_**

* * *

"Do you ever pretend I'm Tweek?" I ask Craig the next day.

He doesn't answer.

"It's okay…" I say, "If you do, it's okay… You can pretend I'm Tweek."

Shit, I know how wrong it is. I know how completely pathetic it sounds. I know I'm just making things worse, but I can't end things just yet. I'm not ready to end things yet.

"I'm not going to pretend you're Tweek," Craig mumbles, "I never did."

"Then why wouldn't you look at me?"

"Because it's harder than it sounds."

"No, it isn't, I always look at you, even though you never look back."

"We're two very different people."

"I suppose…"

"For me, things like that are hard."

Maybe it's that mental connection Kyle was talking about last night. Craig wants to avoid it, while I've been here unknowingly seeking it out.

I only nod and suddenly, Craig puts his hands on my shoulders.

"What're you doing?" I ask.

"Hold on, shut up…"

"Well romance me with small talk…" I say sarcastically.

"I'm trying something," he says awkwardly. He leans in closer and presses his lips to mine.

It's over about as quick as it started, but it happened none the less. Craig Tucker kissed me.

"What was that for?" I ask, somewhat surprised, after he draws back.

"Don't say anything," he holds up a hand and takes a few steps back.

I watch as he lifts his t-shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor before carelessly shrugging out of his pajama pants.

I raise an eyebrow as he strips. "Craig…?"

I can feel my heart beating faster and faster in my chest, like it's trying to force its way out.

He gives me a look, and I can't help but smile.

"Are you gonna make me say it?" he sighs, lying down in the center of his bed.

I chuckle, "Yeah, I wanna hear you say it."

Propping himself up on two elbows, he looks at me and says, "Fuck me, McCormick."

"Craig…" I say again. My heart is beating so fast and loud he can probably hear it.

He rolls his eyes, "Get over here."

"It's okay," I take a step towards the bed, "I can't force you to love me."

"I know," he agrees, "But I can give you this much."

"You don't have to do that. I don't want you to if you don't want to…"

"I want to."

"Is it wrong?" I ask, taking another step closer.

"It's not wrong," Craig says, sounding uncharacteristically amused. "We've done way worse than this."

"I suppose so."

"Besides," he starts, "Since when do you put value in things like ass-virginity?"

I smile at that, "Well, never I supposed. Not until now."

"Am I that special?" he asks. There isn't malice or mocking in the question.

"Yeah," I say.

"Well, then," Craig snorts, "If we're going to be all sentimental and gay and shit, then I want it to be you. You deserve it."

"You're not a prize, Craig."

"You know what I mean," he shrugs. "Come on, take of your clothes and get over here."

I tilt my head to the side, still unsure of many things. Is this really happening? Why? Does Craig have some weird ulterior motive?

No. No, I know that isn't the case. He's not that kind of person. Deep down, he's good.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"Please."

A word I never thought I'd live to hear him say.

I chuckle as I begin to undress. "So, hey, am I allowed to kiss you tonight?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, lying back down.

I saunter towards Craig, kneeling over him. It's weird, how much I've wanted this to happen, how much I've fantasized about it. I reach for the rim of his boxers and he lifts his hips as I tug them off. I toss them behind me and he spreads his legs apart so I can settle between them. Hell, I have to take a second to admire him looking like that, because I doubt it's something I'll ever get to see again.

"Stop staring," he mumbles, looking away.

"Sorry." I grin at him. "Now relax."

"I know," he releases a breath. "I've done this to you before."

"Is this okay?" I ask, touching him with fingers first.

"I'm not made of glass."

"I know you're not." _Believe me, I know. _

I grab his hips and drag him closer to me, positioning myself against him. To be honest, I've never been on top before. It feels different than it was with a girl. I push in as slow as I can. Immediately, his muscles tighten and his eyebrows draw together.

"Give me a sec," he says in a gravelly voice.

I nod, waiting until he'd ready for me to move.

"How does it feel?" I ask.

"Weird…" he says honestly.

I laugh lightly, "I know…"

"But not in a bad way," he finishes.

I lean down and press my lips against his, opening and unresisting. I watch his eyes close before I allow mine to do the same, getting lost in the mild sensation of his mouth moving with mine.

What could be seconds or minutes later, he pulls back with a quiet, wet sound and looks up at me.

"You can move now," he whispers.

It's twisted, but at the same time it's kind of perfect. Of course it would have happened like this; however, I don't mind it. I don't mind at all. I've wanted him like this for so long, and I don't think I'd ever be able to put into words what I'm feeling.

I can hear Craig panting, taking in ragged breaths and damn, he looks perfect.

I don't care what anyone else says and I don't care how corny it sounds – to me, he's perfect. Even with all his flaws.

* * *

Of course, when the best moment of my life occurred, the worst moment would follow shortly after. Apparently Kenny McCormick isn't allowed to be happy for more than a few hours. Can't say I'm surprised.

On my way home from Craig's last night I felt something. Something painful, like a part of me was being ripped out. I wouldn't know how to describe it using better words, but it was all wrong. I fell onto the ground, clutching my chest. I had this feeling of impending doom swelling in my gut. At first, I wasn't sure why, but once I returned home everything was made disgustingly clear.

It happened.

My mom's dead.

I want to laugh and cry and scream, all at the same time.

I had reached forward to touch her. She was cold. I was too late. Even if I did call 911, they wouldn't be able to do anything. She wasn't like me. There's no one to bring her back, and now there's no one to bring me back either.

There was a needle sticking out of her arm. I knew it would end like that. I knew that was how I would find her when it finally happened. This was one of the few things I truly worried about. At least now I can cross it off my list of stressors.

I just sat there for the longest time, staring and that's how my father found me. The bastard actually thought I did it…

I don't remember too much about the rest of last night; only that I was numb and trembling. After she was taken away, I just sank onto the carpet and I couldn't get back up for what felt like a long time.

It is now morning and my mind is still reeling.

I wake up with an incredible headache and a splendidly sore body, probably from a mixture of too much crying, and my shitty mattress.

Holding the walls I shakily go to make my way out of the room only to find my father standing mere feet away from the door.

I find myself preparing for the worst, but am pleasantly surprised to find that he is perfectly sober.

"I'm sorry, Kenny," he says gruffly, "for everything…"

"I know you are, Dad," I reply, trying to sound apathetic but my voice cracks.

I know he's sorry, but at the same time, I know he isn't sorry enough to stop fucking up. He'll pick up another beer and begin to swing his fists, but next time there wouldn't be anyone to get in his way. I won't be there to get in his way.

I lean against the wall and slide down to the floor, rubbing my hands over my face.

"Well, then," I say aloud, laughing bitterly. "I guess it'll be my turn soon, huh, Dad?"

He frowns, "Don't say shit like that."

"But it's true," I argue, "So who the fuck cares what I say when I'll be dead soon? Hey, you wanna do the honors?"

His face remains expressionless.

"Dad…" I mumble, weak and helpless, silently begging him to make it all okay.

Aren't parents supposed to make things better?

He doesn't say anything.

I don't know what he's thinking.

I don't know anything anymore.

I tremble, feeling disgustingly pathetic. I feel tears welling behind my eyes and rather than waiting for my father to turn his back on me again, I force myself to stand and be the first one gone.

It's dark outside again and I'm afraid to leave the house. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve but tears keep coming so I just give up and let them fall.

_Someone help me…_

_Please…_


	11. TT: What Kenny taught me

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Thanks for reviewsss ~ **

**Tweek is probably very OOC, but try to look past that. I find it incredibly difficult to get into his head. I have officially decided that I am not allowed to write in his perspective ever again.**

_**Tweek's POV**_

* * *

Living feels raw. It feels raw, but numb… Does that make any sense? Probably not.

"Be safe, honey," my mother would say every time I left the house.

I never was. I was constantly getting into trouble no matter how hard I tried to avoid it.

Kenny always tells me that it's fine to feel like this. As long as I'm still feeling, that's the important thing. The doctors think differently. They think that it's a "bad sign". I think doctors are like English teachers, always looking for things that aren't there. Always over-analyzing.

I find myself turning toward the door. I'm so used to finding Kenny standing there, but not today.

"Hey, Kenny," I say each time, but only after he says something first.

Kenny visits me the most. Craig hardly ever comes and when he does, he just stands there. We never speak. We haven't spoken in a long time. Sometimes he comes on his own, but sometimes Kenny calls him.

Things have been somewhat tense between Craig and I ever since he found me last year. I don't think he forgave me.

But he saved me, and I never thanked him for it. I think that's mostly because I'm still debating on whether or not I wanted to be saved.

"Do you want me to call Craig over?" Kenny always asks, tilting his head to the side.

_Yes_, I would often think, _Please_.

Yet I'd always say, "No."

"Are you sure?" he'll put his hands on my shoulders and forces me to look at him. Kenny has this weird talent where he claims to know things that a person can't possibly know.

I'll never say anything. I'll just watch Kenny pick his phone out of his pocket because he always knows.

Of course, Craig always comes. When he arrives, he always hovers in the doorway. He stares at me for a substantial amount of seconds, and I stare back.

Kenny will takes a seat in the corner of the room, probably watching the mild connection between us.

I don't know if it helps. I guess it makes it easier, knowing Craig doesn't completely hate me if he's still willing to come to me when he's called.

Each time he's here, I want to tell him I'm sorry for what I said and what I did, but I can never find it in me to allow the words to leave my mouth.

* * *

First mistake was on a Wednesday.

My parents found me barely conscious and bloody. I remember when they came home I was lying on the cold bathroom tiles, holding my bleeding wrist. I had spent most of the night sobbing in the bathroom, contemplating what the hell I was supposed to do. I felt alone because certain things are too difficult to talk about.

I thought I'd be able to pull myself together by the time my parents got home but I wasn't. My Mother was speaking to my father. Her replies were short, as if she wasn't really listening to what he was saying. I know that she probably wasn't. She hates leaving me alone for too long, especially after I got sick.

The voices and footsteps grew closer and I tried to collect myself but I couldn't lift a damn muscle. I was scared of being found out. I was scared what they would say to me.

Mom cried when she seen me and shied away from the state I was in. Dad said my name in this despairing tone. It made me feel even worse than I already felt, and that is saying a lot. I couldn't even answer.

Dad only sighed. I think I was crying, but I can't even recall for sure. I think he was crying too.

It seems like so long ago that happened.

My father tightly bandaged my wrists and carried me back into my room. The next day, they took me to a hospital.

I made a scene in the driveway. I screamed and sobbed and told my parents I didn't want to go, even though I saw it coming. I crumbled to the ground and my dad just picked me up again like I was a child and put me in the car. I cried for the entire ride and they didn't once tell me to stop.

My second mistake was the very next day when I told the doctors _no_.

I don't know how, but apparently news made it to all the guys at school. Everyone was making up their own stories and they were all stupid and wrong. Out of spite I kept my mouth shut.

The only person I told was Kenny, because Kenny listens. Kenny doesn't tell people's secrets. He just listens.

"They –nng–!" I shook, "They told me I needed to rest, but I said no."

"Who said?"

"Doctors…" I explained, "They always tell me I need to rest."

"Rest?"

I nodded, "In a hospital, but I don't want to go to a hospital!"

So I didn't go back for a long time.

* * *

I feel myself twitch and shudder, chills running through me.

Therapists expect full access to your mind. They want you to open up and say, "Welcome to my mind, it's a disgusting place. Feel free to poke around until it's time to psychoanalyse."

So I come here, not necessarily by choice. The doctor asks me questions and I do my best to answer them until it gets too difficult. It took me many months to finally start to open up to him. I still can't talk about certain things, but he looked happy when I finally opened my mouth.

My first few trips to visit the resident therapist were less than successful. "Why am I here?" I had asked. I was hopped up on drugs to calm me down, but they just made me feel even worse.

"Tweek," he had stated, "To say you don't do well under stress is an understatement. You have an extreme case of anxiety, suffering from panic attacks and severe paranoia. You try to avoid situations by coming up with highly unrealistic possible situations… Your happy place can only do so much good."

He had continued to come up with quite a list, including my most recent suicide attempt. However, many of the things on this list were problems I wasn't even aware I had.

My parents are the type of people who like to pretend everything is perfect, including me. They had denied that there was anything really wrong with me for a long time. I suppose I did the same.

"If you could, would you want to find out the exact day of your death?" I ask the therapist.

"Hmm, I don't think I would."

"Why?"

"Because as that time slowly started approaching it's all I would be able to think about. I could be dead next week and I think if I knew that I would end up wasting my time worrying over it."

"Oh," I shudder. "That makes sense."

"Would you want to know your death date?"

"I-no… I don't know. I just want this feeling to stop. I feel sick all the time."

He nods solemnly and writes something down on his clipboard.

My hand travels over my gut and claws at the material of my shirt. My stomach feels all knotted.

After jotting down a few more notes, the doctor looks up at me and says, "If I told you I had a magic pill that would kill you quickly and painlessly, would you want it?"

"No," I say, without hesitance and with an amount of confidence that surprises even me. "When I think about it... When I _really_ think about it, I don't really want to die. There's still things I want to do, things I want to see, people I need to talk to… But sometimes," I point to my head, "The stuff up here becomes too much and well, _it_ becomes a promising possibility."

"It?" he asks.

"Dying."

Sometimes I will think things like, "I hate myself and want to die," but to be honest that is probably a lie. I don't hate myself and I definitely don't want to die. Although I'm not always happy – I doubt anybody is – I certainly don't want to die. However, when the inevitable day does arrive, I want to have bettered myself by then. I don't want to die as I am now.

"Have you tried to hurt yourself at all in the past few days?"

I shake my head, placing my clammy palms on my thighs.

On most days, my sessions go the same. I want to say that I'm making progress, but I'm not so sure.

"You're doing much better," the doctor smiles, "That's enough for today, you should go get ready for lunch."

* * *

Third mistake was on a Sunday.

Almost exactly one year ago from today.

I remember… I was sitting in between the doorway of the bathroom, where the white tiled floor met the carpet. The paint on the wall was beginning to peel and the light seemed dim.

I had reminded myself it was a good idea. It was a good idea.

So I picked up the drugs that my doctor prescribed me and took them all.

"Fuck, no!" I heard the sudden cry and I forced myself to look up.

Craig was standing there and Jesus Christ; I will never forget the look he had on his face as long as I live. I might have even laughed at the fact that he showed an expression other than disinterest if the circumstances were different.

For a long time I didn't know how he found me, but curiosity had overcame me and I finally asked Kenny. Apparently Craig had been texting me nonstop and grew worried. I guess he had reason to be.

He fell onto the floor beside me, whispering, "Oh, shit, what have you done?"

"Stop," I tried to tell him but the words probably come out sounding like a jumbled mess. I already felt tired.

"Stay awake, Tweek," he said. He then sat me up and stuck his rough fingers down my throat, forcing me to puke up the drugs.

I had failed miserably.

I felt so stupid.

When my vomiting was reduced to dry coughing, Craig slumped against the wall and rubbed his hand down his face. He looked like he could've started crying right there and at the time I didn't care, but looking back on it I hate that I was the one to reduce him to that.

"Why would you do that?" he asked in a frighteningly calm voice.

I was angry. Ashamed. I didn't know what I was supposed to say or do, so I hit him and I told him I hated him. He didn't hesitate to hit me back. Well, I guess I deserved it.

So that was my third and last mistake.

* * *

The nurses are always telling me to find my happy place. When I start to feel anxious, or when I feel a panic attack coming they remind me to find my medium.

_I'm in a field._

_Happy._

_It's bright. _

_Happy._

_It's green. _

_Happy. _

_I'm in a field… _

_Happy, happy, happy. _

They teach us all kinds of stupid things in group therapy. I don't know if any of it helps.

"_Treat your body well. Don't abuse it." _

"_Take off your clothing and stare at yourself naked in a mirror. Learn to love what you see." _

"_If you feel anxious, take a deep breath and calm down, find your center. The place you are most comfortable and at peace."_

I think everyone needs a break every so often. Maybe it's good to have days where you just laze around. Clear your head. Eat whatever the hell you want and don't worry about having to throw up afterward. I want to be able to have days like that. It would be nice to be able to enjoy those days with the people I care about.

But until then...

I groan, pulling on my hair and gritting my teeth.

"_Find your center, Tweek, your center."_

_Stop… Stop…_

I ball my fists and pound them into my head.

"_Don't hit yourself, Tweek."_

I sigh, placing my palms flat on the table and staring at the dinner tray in front of me.

"_Eat your food, Tweek."_

"_Tweek."_

"_Tweek."_

"_Tweek."_

I hate the way they always say my name, as if we're friends. All the demands make me want to scream, but nonetheless I find myself picking up the spoon and sipping shitty soup while the nurses make their rounds.

I'd like to think that someday I'll be happy enough not to need to find my center anymore. I'll be content just to live my own life and not have to imagine that I'm somewhere else.

* * *

Each life means something.

Everyone has purpose, even the people who think they don't.

Life isn't supposed to be easy, it isn't supposed to be fair. Life is ugly, and scary, but it can also be beautiful and there can be happiness.

You can't expect answers to come to you if you won't ask questions. You can't expect good things to just happen; you have to make them happen.

That's what Kenny taught me. I'd like to believe it's true.

Someday I'd like to get out of here and experience some of the beauty and happiness for myself.

I also hope that Kenny finds happiness, and realizes that he, too, is a real person.


	12. KM: It meant something to me

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**I'm sorry I killed Mrs. McCormick again! Last time, I promise. Kenny's parents have a very different role in the new fic I'm working on.**

**Also, I'm not sure which one I'll post next. I have a few in the works. You guys should go to my profile and vote on the poll~ **

**_Kenny's POV_**

* * *

I went back to Craig's house when I was finished crying on the floor at home. My dad didn't do anything about it. He just stood there looking as helpless as I felt.

I told Craig what happened. He said "oh" a lot. He didn't look surprised. I guess it's not very surprising. I think, deep down, we both knew it was coming.

We are now lying side-by-side on his bed. It's getting late and he's probably growing tired, but there are still things I need to say to him.

I take a deep breath.

"The sun is gone," I say, taking note of the dim light behind the curtain.

"Hm," Craig mumbles.

"Be careful when you look back on the past," I tell him.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"I won't tell you not to look back, just be careful when you do."

"Why?"

"Because you aren't going back," I explain softly, "Every day, every hour, every minute, every second… you're moving forward. So don't let the past drag you down."

"Oh…"

"Craig..." I say, "Everything we did was secret, but I didn't mind. You wanted that, so I had no choice but to respect your wishes. Even if it wasn't special to you, even if it didn't mean anything… It meant something to me. The first time, the last time, and each moment in between... When you let me take you, the way you looked up at me as it happened, the taste of your saliva, and your fingers on my skin... The fights we had, the obscenities you threw my way. I'll happily remember even our worst times."

"Why are you talking in past tense?" he asks quietly, his voice sounding wet.

"You know why… I mean, it will happen soon."

"Oh."

We are silent for a while after that, and the room is dark when I hear Craig sob. I don't acknowledge the fact that he's crying. I think he'd hate me if I did. I just reach for his hand beneath the blankets and intertwine our fingers.

No matter how much he denied it in the past, I suppose, in the end, he does care. A little bit, at least.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, letting out these agonizing sounds – sounds I never thought I'd hear escape him. I wish I wasn't the one causing them.

He let's go of my hand and rolls onto his side, away from me. I turn my head and stare at his back. His shoulders are shaking.

I don't say anything for a moment, I just smile up at the ceiling. "I'm sorry, I can't stop it. It might hurt you to hear, and I might be selfish to say it, but I love you. I'll always love you… But I can't keep you. You're not an object I can put in my pocket and hope to take with me when I go. You're a person, a person in love with someone who isn't me. So I want you to promise me something."

"What?" he whispers.

"Tell Tweek you love him, or whatever…" I say, "It doesn't matter when. Do it long after I'm gone if you must, but promise me you'll do it. He feels the same way, and both of you deserve the happiness you'll find with each other. Be patient with him. Be kind. Maybe he'll get better. He'll be happy with you, and you'll be happy with him."

"I hate you, McCormick," he cries, letting out these awful sobs. He rolls back over and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his chest.

"Heh," I chuckle. "That's okay. Just promise me that one small thing."

And he does.

Eventually Craig falls quiet, and I can only assume he's fallen asleep.

This life is so unfair.

I swallow thickly, trying hard not to move and wake him up.

I find my gaze unconsciously wandering to the digital clock and I feel as if I'm trying to will Time to stop. Time doesn't work like that, though. Like Destiny, Time is unfair. Time doesn't stop for anyone.

In his sleep, Craig continues to hug me to his chest and just this once, I wish Time would make an exception.

* * *

I spend the morning locked in Craig's bathroom trying to compose a letter. Old fashioned, I know. When I finally got out what I feel I needed to say, I leave it where I know he'll find it. I guess there are some things you really can't say out loud without sounding like a total homo.

When Craig finally wakes up, I get him to drop me off at the hospital to see Tweek, but before I exited the car he stopped me.

"Not coming?" I asked.

"Not yet," he said.

I simply nodded.

"Hey… I want you to know that it meant something to me as well," he had said, referring to our conversation last night.

I smiled, "I'm glad."

Now as I wander down the familiar hallway, I find myself clutching at my chest, as if I'm trying to make the ache go away.

"How're you?" I ask Tweek once I step into his hospital room, letting my hand fall to my side.

"Okay," he says, sounding mellow. He must be hopped up on those pills they make him take.

"Just okay?"

He shrugs, "Scared, too."

"Why scared?"

"I've been thinking lately…" he mumbles.

"What about?" I ask, "Craig?"

"How did you know?" he asks.

It's mainly because Craig is always on his mind, but I don't say that. Instead, I just grin and say, "Because I'm Kenny McCormick, and I know everything. Mwahaha!"

He laughs quietly.

"But hey," I shrug, "fear does a person no good at all and for that reason and that reason alone you should try to find myself no longer afraid."

"Kenny, only you look at the world like that…" he says.

I chuckle, "Maybe you're right." What a load of crap. I have more fear than most people do.

"Do you ever get scared?"

"Yeah, I do."

"What of?"

I shrug, "Dying scares me."

"But you die all the time, right?"

I nod, "But dying is scary no matter what. No matter how many times a person experiences death, it doesn't make it any less terrifying. People who don't fear death at least a tiny bit are probably liars or not quite sane."

"I wouldn't really know."

"Well, I wouldn't say that."

"What do you mean?"

"Dying," I say simply, "You've been close."

"Yeah," he whispers, "I guess you're right."

"Tweek," I say, "Do you love Craig?"

"What?" he frowns, trembling slightly.

"It's just a question. Be honest."

"Why are you asking me that all of the sudden?" He pulls on his hair, mumbling something about this being too much pressure.

I put my hand on his head, untangling his fingers from the blond strands before he begins to pull them out. "Heh, I'm sorry. You don't have to answer."

He looks up at me and I force a smile, before squishing his cheeks and kissing the top of his head.

"Goodbye, Tweek," I say as I walk towards the door.

Before I leave, I hear a "yes".

"Hm?" I turn around, hovering in the doorway.

"Yes," he repeats.

I nod, "I thought so. Please, tell him."

"Goodbye, Kenny."

I wave.

_Take care of each other. Take care of him the way I wish I could. _


	13. KM: Goodbye you guys

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**I wish I could've made this more sad, but writing sad stuff is hard LOL. **

**This was going to be the last chapter, but it was way too vague and unfinished, so I have one more chapter that will explain the "how" and then an epilogue. **

_**Kenny's POV**_

* * *

After leaving the hospital, I dodge a falling tree only to get hit by a car minutes later. But clearly the Gods are on my side today, so I escape with just a few scratches and some road rash. No cracked skull today.

The man gets out of the car and frantically asks me if I'm all right.

I stand up, dusting off my jeans and stretching bruised limbs experimentally, "I'm fine!"

"I need to take you to a hospital –"

I shake my head. "Thanks, but that won't be necessary," I insist before walking off.

I shoot the guys a text asking them to meet me at Stark's Pond. I guess I'm starting to run out of time.

As I walk past the Broflovski residence, I take comfort in seeing a familiar head of hair. "Hey, man," I holler, watching him walk down the driveway.

Shit, I feel sick. He's going to cry. He often does, but this time it's so much worse because I won't be coming back. I won't be able to see him smile anymore when he sees me reappear. I won't be able to pretend to be annoyed that he forgot I didn't just run off somewhere, and that I died.

I really don't want the last time I see them to be sad.

"Hey," he grins, but it dims significantly once he notices the expression I must be wearing. "What's wrong…?" he asks slowly, and then, "Dude, is that blood? What the hell happened?"

I feel a lump in my throat that won't go away.

Don't cry, don't cry.

"Kenny…?" Kyle's voice cracks, "Why did you want us to meet you? Did something bad happen?"

"Things good with Stan?" I ask, disregarding his questions.

He nods slowly.

"I'm glad…" I say. "You, Stan, Wendy, Cartman… You'll all have each other now. Maybe you'll even get to know Craig and Tweek better. You all have your happy ending… even if I can't have mine."

"Why are you talking like that?" he asks. "Did things not go well with Craig?"

I force a smile, remembering what happened. "I wouldn't say that," I say, "It went as well as it could, and you know what? I don't regret any of it. I'm… happy it's this way."

"That's good…" Kyle tilts his head, frowning, "But you know, my mom used to say if it isn't a happy ending, then it just isn't the end yet."

"That's kind of nice… But to be honest, I don't know if it's true. Sometimes there are no happy endings in life."

"I know," his frown deepens, "Realistically speaking, everyone's story ends in death. Every ending is sad because death is sad."

"Yeah," I chuckle, "Though my life is filled with a lot more death than most people's."

He looks sympathetic.

We walk silently. I can't bring myself to say anything for many long minutes. I feel like if I try, I'll just choke on the words.

"Kyle," I finally say. My voice sounds weak, and I wish I could bring myself to sound stronger. I wish I could sound like I was okay, but the truth is… I'm not. I don't want to die. I'm not ready to die. I'm fucking nineteen years old. I want to stay here with everyone, but I won't tell them that part. I know it would only make them feel worse.

So, yeah, I'm scared. Fuck what I told Tweek. That doesn't work in situations like this. This isn't okay.

"Kenny, you're really scaring me," Kyle whispers.

"I'm scared too," I laugh.

He looks upset, so I decide I'll just get it over with.

"Kyle," I say his name for what feels like the tenth time in the past few minutes. "You know I love you, right?"

This is when he starts to cry.

"I know that, Kenny," he sobs.

"I'm sorry, Kyle… but I'm not going to be around anymore."

"What do you mean?"

I force yet another smile, but it probably looks completely miserable. "I'm gonna die real soon."

"But… you die all the time," he tentatively reasons.

"I know," I whisper, trying to sound stronger, "But this time… there's no one to bring my back."

Kyle's eyes widen as more tears escape, "No…"

I shrug, letting out a breath.

"What if you don't die, though?" Kyle asks sounding sadly hopeful.

"I don't think that's the case. I've been dodging death since my mum…" I trail off.

"Maybe… it is just a coincidence? You didn't die, right?"

"I don't think it was, Kyle," I say quietly.

"Kenny… Can't you stay with us until it does happen?"

I shake my head, "Whatever happens, it'll be brutal. If I can control it, I don't want you guys to have to see that. I don't want that to be the last memory you have of me. It won't be the way it used to. I won't wake up, forcing you all to forget it had ever happened. You won't forget this time, so… it's best this way. I want you to have the last memory of me be a good memory, one you can smile at."

I want to be able to control at least this much of my life. It may be selfish, but I need it to be this way.

"It's not fair…" Kyle whispers. "None of this is fair."

"No, it's not," I admit, "but no one ever said life was gonna be fair, right?"

* * *

Minutes later, we make our way to Stark's Pond. As soon as we arrive, I try to gladly take in the faces of Stan, Eric, and Craig.

"You all came," I say.

"What the fuck's going on?" Eric asks, staring at Kyle, who is puffy-eyed. "What's with the Jew?"

"This may be the last time I see you guys so put on your best faces," I say.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he raises an eyebrow.

"My mum is dead..."

"What?" Stan chokes as realization sets in. "No…"

I take a deep breath before I continue speaking. I force myself to look at them, to take in each one of their expressions.

"I've always asked myself questions I couldn't answer. What am I? What's my purpose? Why am I here?" I shrug, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Maybe this is why. Maybe I was just here to guide you guys, but you are all doing okay. I've fulfilled my purpose. I don't need to be here anymore. I mean… I'm young. I'm nineteen. I'm still a kid. Kids aren't supposed to die, but sometimes they do and that's life. I'll get over it and so will you."

Stan and Kyle are crying openly, and it's painful to see.

Eric looks angry, but I know it isn't me he's angry at. It's God, or Satan, or whoever the hell he thinks is to blame.

Craig looks sick and lost. His eyes are glassy, but he isn't usually the kind of guy to cry, even at the worst of times. I guess he did all his crying in the dark last night.

It's cold out here. It smells like wind and freedom in the sickest, most desperate sense of the word.

But I'm not free yet.

I've never been free, and I never will be as long as I'm here on earth.

So, hey. Maybe one good thing will come out of dying.

A strange sense of freedom.

It's snowing, not those soft and gentle snowflakes that are seen in all the Christmas movies, but these heavy, large clumps of white splattering onto the ground and piling up.

"You know," I start, "I think that by simply existing we have the ability to hurt other people, sometimes we do it without realizing to, or meaning to, but it happens none the less. We've all hurt people, and we've all been hurt. I think we should try not to think of the pain as something bad, maybe we should start thinking of it as a lesson or a learning experience. Don't hold grudges. Forgive others, but most importantly forgive yourself. Take a good look at each other; take a good look at yourselves… You should all feel proud. I know I am."

* * *

We spend the night talking. Well, I do most of the talking. I think I've said everything I wanted to say. I got everything off my chest.

I try to enjoy my time with them, though I can't help feeling afraid at the same time.

I told Craig I loved him again, and he kissed me one last time; however it was different than those other times. This time, I felt something. Maybe it was love, not in the romantic way, but in the purest sense of the word. Just love, simple as that.

I feel it from everyone.

Love, in the purest and simplest sense of the word.

I never realized it before, but I really am loved.

It's nice… It's nice to know that some of what I feel for them is returned.

And maybe this is what really ties my life together. Maybe I've found what I've been looking for. Maybe now it won't be just another sad ending. Maybe Kyle's mom was right.

The night finally comes to an end. "I'll see you guys tomorrow," I say, but we all know that isn't true, I have to face this. I can't keep pretending. So, with a little laugh, I lift my head up high. "Well, probably not," I admit, and with the best smile I can muster, I whisper, "Goodbye, you guys."

Then I turn away, but before I do I swear I see them smiling back at me.

* * *

When I am back home, I spare my dad one last glance, and he looks almost… sad. I turn away, retreat to my room and curl up in my bed, shutting my eyes.

Lying here, alone on my mattress, I welcome death one last time. I feel sad, but not as sad as I thought I'd feel. I think about everything I'm leaving behind and I think about my friends, who I will meet again one day, but for now –

Our summer together has ended.

_I am free. _


	14. CT: Thank you

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Go to my profile and vote on my poll, guys! k2 and style are tied! ****Also, thanks for reviews! One more chapter to go~ **

_**Craig's POV**_

* * *

Kenny is gone, simple as that. His bedroom ceiling caved in on him. I thought that was weird, but then again, Kenny always died in the least likely of ways.

However, he left me something. I found it sitting on my desk when I returned home after watching Kenny walk away. It was next to Stripe's cage. I guess he knew that was where I would see it.

On simple, loose-leaf paper, Kenny had written:

_Craig –_

_It's okay to want to appear strong, but sometimes it'll get hard. There are emotions that can't be muted until they've run their course and sadness is one of them. _

_You can carry your sadness, but don't let it carry you. At times, you can hold it close, but never let it do the same to you. If you do, then each night when you go to bed thinking there is nothing wrong, your mind will start reeling and you will start remember things. Maybe it will be because of something someone said that day, or maybe it'll be because you've left your mind blank for too long, but you will suddenly start believing that you are fucking miserable and so fucking alone. It'll be there waiting to consume you, and if you let your sadness hold you close, in the end you'll let it consume you too. It will take control. _

_So it's okay to carry your sadness, but keep it somewhere special. Keep it somewhere that can be easily reached by others. If you do that, then someday it will be gone, because that is how things work. Sometimes it leaves you on its own, but sometimes you'll need help. That's what your friends are for. _

_And sure, some days it will return. It'll come creeping back because that is what happens in life. Things go up and things go down. So when it returns, take comfort in the familiarity and remember that one day it'll be gone again. It won't stay unless you invite it to._

_When you become happy, it overwrites all the sadness._

_So, do it for yourself and for the people who love you – be happy. You deserve it. _

_I think it's okay to remember the bad things in life; however, don't dwell on them, just simply remember them alongside all the good things. _

_If you can, that's how I want you to remember me as well. _

During one of Kyle Broflovski's science presentations back in high school, I remember him saying that if a child is incapable of experiencing physical pain then they won't be able to fully develop mentally. If that's true, then maybe it's the same for emotional pain. Maybe that's what Kenny is saying. I think that makes sense.

I also remember Kyle saying that animals often wander off to die alone. Maybe humans aren't any different.

I tucked the letter away somewhere safe. I couldn't bring myself to reread it, but someday I will. Someday when I'm feeling like shit, I'll read it again and his words will be a reminder that things do get better.

The letter isn't signed, but then again, it doesn't need to be signed. I'd recognize that messy handwriting anywhere. I'd recognize those words anywhere, even though – before now – they had remained unsaid.

If he were here, I'd probably joke about the letter to him. "I didn't know you were so fucking poetic," I'd say.

But he's not here.

In small yet significant ways, Kenny made a difference. I think he made a difference in all the lives he came in contact with, even if he didn't realize it. I suppose, even now, he continues to do so.

He is special in that way.

It's been a week already since we watched him walk off and we buried him one final time. I know he won't be coming back this time, but at the same time I'm beginning to realize that I'll be okay.

And that's all right.

Kenny wouldn't have wanted us to be sad that he's gone. He'd want us to be happy he was here.

And I am.

I'm happy to have known Kenny McCormick.

I'm happy he was such an important part of my life, and that I was an important part of his. I only wish I could have done more for him, because, though he may have never realized it, he did so much for me.

Even I hadn't really realized it before now.

I wish I could have told him… but then again, knowing Kenny, he probably didn't need me to say it.

* * *

I take a deep breath and unclench my fists as a nurse leads me to Tweek's room.

I promised Kenny I would fix things, so I will, but I'm doing this for me.

"Let us know if you need anything," the nurse smiles politely.

"I will," I say as he walks off.

When I walk into the room, Tweek is sitting in a chair facing the window and looking out at the snow falling. He turns his head upon hearing the door creak open and stands up after noticing that it's me.

He doesn't utter a word, but he looks calm, mellow – probably from pills.

"Hey, Tweek," I say.

His lips part.

I approach him slowly. "I'm so sorry," I whisper once I've reached him.

His eyes are glassy, but he doesn't cry, instead he smiles. He slowly reaches out his hands and presses them against my abdomen, clutching the fabric.

"So am I," he finally speaks.

Carefully I put my hands on his shoulders and pull him close. He melts into me, locking his arms around my back.

We stay like that for a long time. I don't know how, but it feels like we're both trying to telepathically communicate just how sorry we really are to one another.

It has been over a year since we last spoke, but I think we'll be okay now. At least, it feels like we will be.

"Kenny's gone," I say softly once we break apart.

Tweek smiles bitterly, "I know."

"How?"

"He said goodbye," Tweek whispers.

"Goodbye?"

Tweek nods, "He never said goodbye to me before. It was always, 'see you soon,' or 'later,' but never a _goodbye_. Right away I knew it meant something."

"Oh," I say, "Are you okay?"

"Strangely enough, I am. Are you?"

It's funny, in a not-so-funny way. It reminds me of something Kenny once said to me when we were watching a dumb, sappy movie with Clyde. "They won't meet again," he had predicted the ending of the movie.

"W-what?" Clyde had asked, practically in tears. He's always been a bit of a crybaby.

"Because she said goodbye," Kenny explained, "and everyone knows that when you say goodbye it means you are leaving."

Kenny…

"No," I finally admit, "I'm not okay, but I will be."

Tweek nods, "I'll be here… I've been here this whole time."

"Yeah," I feel myself smile, something I haven't done in a long time. "I know that now, and I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner."

I've been so damn naïve.

"I… I've missed you…" he says.

"Me too."

"I…" he trails off.

"Me too."

So we won't say the L word just this second – maybe we won't for a while – but I don't care about that. All I care about is this moment right here.

But someday I'll tell him I love him. He'll probably be shaking by the time I finally get the words out, and maybe he won't be able to say it back, but I'll still say it again nonetheless because after all that has happened he deserves to hear it as much as I can say it.


	15. KB: Hey Kenny

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Thanks for all the reviews! This is the ****epilogue****, hope you guys enjoy it. Yeah, I tend to overuse letters in fanfics, but shhhh, it's okay. They just tie things together so nicely. **

**r&r ~ **

_**Kyle's POV**_

* * *

Because this was a story about life and love, in turn, it was a story about death.

Kenny never did come back.

When we were nineteen years old, he disappeared from our lives. He's was slipping away, I could feel it. I wanted desperately to stop him from slipping away any further, but I couldn't. No one could, not even himself.

The following week we found a note. It said:

_Hey, __everyone. _

_I wrote Craig a letter and I decided I'd write you guys a letter, too! _

_You're all probably wondering how I'm writing this, and how you can be reading it, right? Let me just say that being on Satan's good side gets you all kinds of things. _

_I'm sorry. I always knew it was inevitable. I used to go around saying I was invincible, but no one is truly invincible._

_Try not to cry too much, hell isn't that bad of a place. There are motels, and parties. Satan is pretty cool once you get to know him, and someday you'll all be here with me. Don't let that scare you, though. Heh heh heh. _

_I'll be okay. I already know what I'm going to do when I get done writing this letter. I'll play chess with Damien. I'll help Satan with his many problems, because deep down, he's a huge softie. I'll go find my mom, and I'll tell her I forgive her. I'll wait for you all. _

_I'm glad I've helped you guys, even if just a little bit. _

_So maybe that was it. Maybe that was my purpose in life. Maybe that was Destiny's plan for me. I feel like I was too busy trying to figure it out that I didn't realize it was what I've been doing my whole life. The answers to my questions were right under my nose. _

_Even if it was something small as that, it makes me happy knowing I did something right. It makes me happy knowing I might've made a positive impact in a few lives. _

_It took me long enough, but maybe I've figured it out. _

_So don't feel sad for me anymore. I've embraced my death. Sure, I'd rather me up there with you guys but hey, goodbyes aren't forever. _

_Anyway, I'm ranting! I'll wrap this up. _

_Be good to each other. I'll see you all again, but not until you've lived your lives._

_Infinite love,_

_Kenny_

Yeah, Kenny had always been all-knowing, so it had only made sense for him to have known he was going to die. Yet still, I wanted to question him. I wanted to tell him he was lying. I wanted him to crack a smile and tell us that yes, he was lying. But that didn't happen. It wasn't another one of his jokes.

At first I couldn't believe it. I kept thinking, "Kenny may be gone, but he'll be back, right? This has to be a joke." However, this time, true to his words, he didn't come back. When I watched him walk away, I wasn't as hopeful as I had been earlier on in the night. The reality of it all had set in, and then there was only room for acceptance.

People always told Kenny that he couldn't possibly know the things he claimed to know. He continued to prove them wrong every single time he turned out to be right.

It all happened many summers ago. None of us saw him die. He wanted it that way. We all watched him walk away until he had disappeared and that was it.

Kenny was gone.

Kenny is gone.

I used to think he held us and this entire fucking place together. After he died, I realized that wasn't true. We can all hold our own, and we do it while staying together. But maybe it is thanks to him that we can.

I remember weeks before he passed, we were playing guitar hero and chatting mindlessly about things that didn't matter at all.

They were all laughing and they were all smiling. I was trying to pay attention but my mind kept going back to Kenny, who was laughing along with them. Looking back on it, I have a nagging suspicion he was faking it, putting on a happy face so he wouldn't have to worry us.

So there he was, looking like he always did. Happy. To this day, I still don't know how he did it. I would have gone mad, but maybe it was the only thing he could do to keep himself sane.

No one will ever be able to replace Kenny, but it's nice to be able to share our memories of him together with everyone else. I think knowing that would have made Kenny happy. Then again, maybe, wherever he is, he already does know.

Months after it had happened, I said to Stan, "There are no ghosts, but I think it's possible for people to still get haunted."

"How so?" he asked.

"It's memories that haunt people and make them see the dead," I explained, "The good and the bad memories."

And maybe that's okay.

Years have passed since then, but not a day goes by where Kenny doesn't cross my mind.

Kenny died, but he never once stopped being a part of our lives.

I think I can say the same for the rest of the guys as well. However, it isn't a bad thing like some people may think. It isn't bad at all to remember old friends.

Old friends, and new.

Cartman is now the proud CEO of his own company, the proud husband of Wendy, and a soon-to-be-father. Though, to be frank, that thought kind of frightens me.

I'm a lawyer now, and Stan dropped out of university, believe it or not. Sometimes I think the only reason he went was because I was going. He now coaches the local football team. I think that suits him.

Craig has taken over the auto shop after the old man he worked for retired.

Thanks to Craig's time and patience, Tweek was able to leave the hospital. He's still sick, and some days are worse than others, but I doubt the hospital was doing him any good. Slowly, I think he's doing better.

Though Tweek isn't the only one, I think we are all doing much better.

* * *

Today, we are all gathering once again to show Kenny how much we love him. We laugh and share silly stories and it's nice.

After visiting Kenny, we will go back to the local bar. Eric will order rounds of beer and a cup of juice for me. We will make a toast to Kenny, celebrating his life – something we will continue to do until we see him again.

It's just like Kenny always said – life goes up and life goes down. It truly is a roller coaster but then again, who said it would be otherwise? There are good times, there are bad times and if Kenny was here I know he would agree that death is always painful. It is painful for the person dying, but painful for those left behind as well. I know he must have understood this, too.

Craig walks hand-in-hand with Tweek, while I do the same with Stan.

"You're much gentler these days," I say to a humble Eric Cartman on the walk to the cemetery. He has a protective arm around his very pregnant wife, who is smiling contentedly.

"I know," he laughs, "I wonder what happened."

He says that, but he knows exactly what happened. We all changed after Kenny died. I think he made us all better people.

Each time we gather here I find myself wondering what he might have been thinking of when he finally left us, or was he thinking of anything at all? I find myself wondering what it would be like to be buried with the earthworms, dirt, lanky roots and skeletons. It's something I'm sure Kenny was all too familiar with –

_Kenneth McCormick_

_1994 – 2013_

_A son, a brother_

_A lover, a friend_

Letting go of Stan's hand, I lean down and place a daisy on the gravestone. A simple flower for a guy who wanted nothing more than a simple life. I stare for a long time before finally speaking.

"Hey, Kenny..." I put on my best smile, the way I did when he walked away seven years ago. "We're back."

**The end.**


End file.
